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AS   GOD>^ 
MADE  HER 

BY  SARAH 

mURRAY 

THRASHER 

^ 

A      Story 
of    a    Fair 
Californian 

COOPER    *    CO. 
764     Market    St. 
San     Francisco 

PRICi:     FIFTY     CUNTS 


As  God  Made  Her 


A  Story  of  a  Fair  Californian 


By  SARAH  MURRA  Y  THRASHER 


1902 
COOPER    &    CO 

7ti4  Market  Street 
San  Francisco 


Copyrighted  1902 
Bv  Dr.  Marion  Thrasher 


The  IIick3-Judd  Company  Print,  21-23  First  St.,  S.  F. 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    'SlY    FATHER 

JAMES  MURRAY 

THE    DR.    HARDING    OF   THIS    STORY,    WHOSE    BROAD 

HUMANITARIAN    IDEAS    ARE    HEREIN 

INCORPORATED 

tbis  Book  i$  Affectionately  Dedicated 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 


102531 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/asgodmadeherstorOOthrarich 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I .     Oaklavvn  and  the  Santa  Clara  Valley 1 

II.     Dorcas,  and  an  Early  Romance 8 

III.  Beauty  on  a  Wheel 11 

IV.  Aunt  Rhoda's  Surprise 17 

V.     Uncle  John  Infatuated 23 

VI.     Doyt's  Training 28 

VII.     Tim,  the  Newsboy 32 

VIII.     Evolution  of  an  Egg 37 

IX.     Doubt  Dispelled 42 

X.     "Blue  Juniata" 45 

XI.     God  Everywhere 49 

XII.     Asphyxiating  Church  Air 57 

XIII.  Dr.  Harding's  Patients 60 

XIV.  Vacation  at  the  Beach 63 

XV.     A  Graceful  Equestrienne  64 

XVI.     A  Perfect  Animal 67 

XVII.     "As  God  Made  Her"  71 

XVIII.     Pescadero 79 

XIX.     An  Ocean  Soliloquy 81 

XX.     On  the  Sea  Shore 85 

XXI .     The  Two  Handsome  Cousins 93 

XXII.     Lowell  Rescues  a  Drowning  Child 98 

XXIII.  George's  Infatuation 102 

XXIV.  The  Meeting  of  the  Bicycles  106 

XXV.     The  Theater  Train 112 

XXVI.     Stanford  University 115 

XXVII.     A  Happy  Surprise 120 

XXVIII.     A  Son's  Ingratitude 124 

XXIX.     Lowell  at  Oaklawn 129 

XXX.     Love  Among  the  Redwoods 137 

XXXI.     A  Proposal 149 

XXXII.     Father  and  Daughter 156 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTKR 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 
XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XL  IX. 

L. 

LI. 

LI  I. 
LIII. 


LIV. 


LV. 


PAGE 

Vacation  Again 159 

A  Summer  Outing 163 

Over  the  Mountains 172 

The  Wayside  House 178 

The  Giant  Redwood  Forests 180 

A    Ramble   Along  the   Pescadero   and  What 

Became  of    It 183 

Dr.  Harding  Makes  a  Diagnosis  That  Was  Not 

a  Medical  One 190 

Uncle  John's  and  Aunt  Rhoda's  Departure 196 

He  Passed  His  College  Examination  and  Now 

Writes  His  Name  Lowell  Livingstone,  M.  D.  200 
A  California  Tropical  Home  in  Which  a  Wed- 
ding is  Consummated 203 

Happy  Days  at  Oaklawn 208 

The  Young  Surgeon 213 

A  Baby—"  A  Dresden  Without  a  Flaw." 216 

Dr.    Harding  Discussing  the  Question  of  the 

Ages,  "  Shall  We  Live  Again  ?  " 219 

Outing  at  the  Beach — Drowning  of  Dr.  Hard- 
ing and  Lowell — Suspicion  of  Foul  Play 227 

Sad    Journey    Homeward — Funeral — Deacon 

Johnson 233 

George  again  a  Suitor— The  Stolen  Child 239 

Child  Found — Great  Rejoicing 240 

George  Bids  Oaklawn  Farewell  Forever — 
Lowell's     Brother    Lawrence     from    Berlin 

Arrives 250 

Child  Dying —  Marvelous  Recovery  under  Dr. 

Lawrence  Livingstone 258 

Doyt's  Wondrous  Beauty  Captivates  Him— 
For  Ethical  Reasons  He  Objects  to  Marry- 
ing   His    Brother's    Wife   and    Prepares  to 

Return  to  Europe 267 

Aunt  Dorcas  Uses  Logic  and  with  the  Assis- 
tance of  Doyt  Prevents  His  Departure— Dr. 
Lawrence  Livingstone  Yields  to  the  Inevi- 
table    278 

The  Marriage 288 


OPENING. 


God  touched  the  earth  in  kindness 

And  lo!  it  dimpled  where 
It  felt  His  mighty  finger 

And  a  Talley  nestled  there. 
And  he  told  His  Angel  artist 

To  paint  a  sky  more  blue 
Than  ever  dainty  violet 

Or  any  blue-bell  knew. 
And  to  stretch  it  o'er  that  valley 

As  a  promise  from  its  God, 
That  peace  and   plenty  there  should   spring 

Like   flowers  from   its   sod. 
And  He  set  the  mighty  mountains 

To  guard  that  happy  vale, 
Where  the  Autumns  kiss  the  Springtime 

And  the   Summers  never  fail. 
Then  all  the  birds   came  singing 

To  where  the  valley  smiled, 
And  all  the  suns  came  shining 

By  all  its  peace  beguiled. 
And   from   its  hidden  canyons 

The  brooklets  sparkled  down, 
To  cheer  the  future   exiles 

From  the  city   or  the  town. 
And  the  gray  earth  loved  its  flowers. 

And  the  flowers  loved  the  sun. 
And  the  glory  of  the  daytime 

Into   evening  glory  run. 
And  the  live-oak  wore  its   banners  green 

Thro'  all  the  year  unfurled. 
And  so   was   Santa   Clara  vale 

First  given   to  the  world. 

—A.  J.  WATERHOUSE. 


AS  G0D  MADE  HER 


CHAPTEE  I. 

It  was  a  California  home;  a  place  where  nature  was 
sweet,  where  the  sun  came  down  with  warming  glow; 
where  growth  was  not  a  struggle  and  a  failure,  but  an 
ardent    exultant  rush    toward    perfection.     A  restful 
peace  hung  over  the  place  that  came  from  warm  cli- 
mate and  even  temperature  and  from  prosperous,  con- 
tented ownership.     Far  back  from  the  wood,  quietly 
nestled  among  the  fresh  foliage,  stood  the  house,  a 
building  of  some  pretense,  attractively  homelike  in  ap- 
pearance  and  modern   in  build.     The    slender   pillars 
which  upheld  the  broad  veranda  of  the  dwelling  were 
overhung  with  roses,  and  the  turf  on  either  side  was  of 
radiant    greenness.     Broad    walks    ran    through    the 
grounds  bordered  by  beds  of  flowers,   luxurious,  gor- 
geous, superb;  the  unchecked  growth  of  the  winterless 
year.     At  the  back  of  the  house  there  were  hedge  lines 
with  arched  gateways,  and  at  each  side  of  the  drive  that 
led  from  the  road  there  were  rows  of  trees,  and  the 
green  sward    was  dotted   with  them.     The    place  was 
gladdened  and  beautified  by  the  pinnate  leaves  of  the 
palm,  and  the  broad  massive  foliage  of  the  banana; 
these  grew  side  by  side  with  the  maple  and  the  elm, 
the    orange  and  the    lemon,  the    umbrella    tree,  the_ 
eucalyptus  and  the  pomegranate,  the  wide  spreading 
fig  and  the  gray  olive.     The  dark  green  tops  of  the 
Irish  yew  swaying  gracefully,  mingled  with  the  delicate 
leaves  of  the  pepper  tree,  and  the  rich  foliage  of  the 
masrnolia,  while  the  dracaena  pushed  up  its  frail  green 
1  (1) 


2  AS   GOD   MADE   HER. 

shoots  in  the  shadow  of  the  camphor  tree  and  the 
cedar,  the  chestnut  and  the  linden,  the  California  lilac 
and  the  lanrel.  At  the  side  of  the  house  and  at  some 
distance  from  it  two  grand  oaks,  hoary  and  old,  spread 
their  gnarled  limhs  in  weird  grandeur  and  lay  outlined 
on  the  grass  in  huge,  grim  shadows.  To  the  eastward, 
hovering  close,  rose  the  rugged  sides  of  Mt.  Hamilton; 
at  its  summit  far  skyward  in  imposing  white  silence 
sat  sun-gilded  buildings  of  the  Lick  Observatory.  Be- 
yond the  oaks  were  thrifty  little  ranches  and  at  the 
other  side  lay  the  town  with  its  tall  spires,  its  electric 
towers,  its  white  houses  and  long  lines  of  trees.  The 
place  itself  was  bowered  in  orchards  and  outside  were 
fresh  gardens  and  green  fields  and  stretches  of  vine- 
yards, while  the  still  dimpled  hills  lay  beyond  backed 
by  the  blue  mountains  of  the  Coast  Eange. 

It  was  a  day  in  mid-December;  the  rain  which  had 
fallen  through  the  night  had  given  an  unwonted  trans- 
parency to  the  atmosphere,  a  freshness  to  the  verdure 
and  an  intensity  to  the  color  of  the  flowers. 

Through  the  open  door  and  out  on  the  flower-hung 
veranda  Dr.  Harding  led  the  way.  He  was  a  tall,  well 
built,  energetic  man  with  deep  expressive  eyes;  his 
features  were  even  and  the  earnest  face  full  of  the 
scholar's  thought,  was  framed  in  abundant  locks  which, 
here  and  there,  were  touched  with  gray.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  farmer  back  in  New  England  mountains;  but 
his  classic  features,  his  walk,  his  every  motion  gave 
proof  of  native  nobility.  The  peaceful  nook  we  have 
described  was  his  home.  He  had  bought  the  fertile 
acres  here  in  the  lovely  Santa  Clara  Valley  years  be- 
fore. Then  only  the  two  oak  trees  stood  upon  it  and 
he  had  expended  his  taste  in  the  improvements,  and 
had  superintended  not  only  the  planting  but  the  cul- 
ture of  every  tree  and  shrub.  In  the  practice  of  his 
profession  here  life  had  gone  smoothly  on  unmarked 
by  any  event  save  his  marriage,  the  birth  of  his  daugh- 
ter, and  the  death  of  his  wife,  when  the  child  was  at 
the  age  of  five  years. 


A  STORT  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  3 

The  two  persons  who  followed  him  were  his  brother 
and  wife;  and  the  conversation  which  ensued  unfolded 
the  fact  that  they  had  arrived  but  an  hour  before  from 
their  New  Hampshire  home.  The  brother  of  the  doc- 
tor was  not  so  tall  as  himself  but  of  sturdier  build;  the 
face  was  more  deeply  furrowed,  and  among  his  thin 
locks  was  more  of  gray.  The  essential  character  of 
the  two  brothers  was  perhaps  much  the  same;  but  if 
there  had  been  any  physical  resemblance  between 
them,  in  earlier  years,  the  difference  in  their  lives 
since,  had  made  it  difficult  to  trace.  The  wife  was  a 
thin,  sallow  Avoman,  with  hair  drawn  smoothly  back 
from  her  sharp  face ;  and  a  wisp  of  it  pinned  tightly  at 
the  back.  When  the  couple  had  left  their  ^ew  Eng- 
land home,  the  cold,  keen  winds  ot  winter  had  smitten 
the  flowers,  and  felled  the  com  leaves,  and  stripped 
the  trees  and  enclosed  the  streams.  They  had  awak- 
ened each  morning  of  their  long  days  of  travel  to  a 
landscape  frost  locked,  and  they  themselves  had  been 
held  snow-bound  for  two  days  on  the  summit  of  the 
Sierras.  The  change  Avas  mystical.  Above  their  heads 
the  clouds,  soft  and  fleecy,  floated  away  to  the  east- 
ward through  the  livid  blue.  Here  the  breezes  were 
mild  and  the  air  soft  and  balmy  and  loaded  with  per- 
fume; and  here  the  sunshine  warm  and  rich  poured  out 
on  the  hill  tops  and  streamed  through  the  woodlands 
and  flooded  the  valleys.  Here  were  flowers  all  about 
them  of  every  form,  shade,  hue,  tint  and  color;  the 
scarlet,  the  orange  and  the  blue  and  the  purple,  the 
A^ermillion,  the  amber  and  the  gold.  Here  the  stately 
lily  bloomed  and  by  its  side  the  salvia  lifted  its  red 
plumes  in  scarlet  so  intense  that  it  fairly  blazed.  Here 
the  trees  stood  smothered  in  leafy  masses  and  the 
waving  grass  flashed  with  greenness.  On  the  air  about 
them  was  the  cricket's  chirp,  the  soft  movement  of 
bird  wings,  the  comforting  song  of  contented  hens,  and 
"the  twitter  and  trill  of  gay-colored  songsters.  For  the 
first  time  since  birth,  these  married  two  had  cut  them- 
selves loose  from  the  simple,  monotonous  New  England 


4  AS.  GOD   MADE   HER. 

]ite,  out  of  which  people  seldom  traveled.  Baxter  was 
a  common  little  town^  picturesque  from  its  situation 
among  the  mountains,  like  others  similarly  situated, 
unknown  and  unhistorical.  Habit  had  made  it  a  home 
and  outside  of  it  the  world  seemed  lonely.  Here,  sur- 
rounded by  the  richness,  the  beneficent  summer 
warmth,  the  gorgeous  landscape,  the  tropical  luxury, 
the,  plain,  hard-worked,  world-worn  couple,  looked 
strangely  out  of  keeping  with  the  surroundings. 

"Here,  Rhoda,'^  Dr.  Harding  said  as  he  rolled  a 
luxurious  armchair  out  on  the  veranda  and  placed  it 
for  his  guest,  ''You've  made  a  great  sacrifice  to  give 
up  your  accustomed  habits  and  to  come  so  far,''  he 
said,  feelingly.  ''I  want  you  folks  to  sit  down  now  to 
comfortable  enjoyment  of  life.  You'll  find  this  a  capi- 
tal place  for  rest,"  he  added  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  brought  about  a  desired  condition  of  things,  and 
one  which  it  had  taken  great  trouble  to  effect.  The 
woman  ,had  grown  so  used  to  austerities  that  she  never 
tliought  of  looking  for  the  cushioned  places  in  life; 
from  her  hard  religion  she  had  never  gained  the  idea 
that  the  Lord  wdio  made  us  ever  designed  any  sort  of 
pleasure,  for  us  here.  After  standing  with  folded 
hands  at  some  little  distance,  and  looking  the  chair 
over,  she  walked  across  and  seated  herself  with  military 
stiffness  on  its  tip  edge.  After  the  doctor  arranged 
the  settees  for  his  brother  John  and  himself,  he  sat 
down  opposite  to  him,  and  where  he  could  observe  him 
at  his  leisure.  He  studied  his  face  with  irresistible  im- 
pulse, and  with  the  earnestness  of  one  seeking  treas- 
ures. He  longed  to  pry  into  his  brother's  life,  though 
it  were  only  to  learn  the  pathos  of  it.  Presently  he 
said,  as  he  followed  his  brother's  wondering  eyes:  "I 
know  everything  is  new  to  you  here;  I  wish  you  would 
impart  to  me  some  of  your  impressions."  Then  he 
went  on  with  impulsive  hospitality,  'T  only  hope  that 
it  possibly  gives  you  the  pleasure  to  be  here,  it  does 
me  to  welcome  you."  "Well,  Jmi,"  his  brother  good- 
naturedly  replied,  rallying  liii;nsel:^,."my  main  impres- 


A  STORY  OF'CALIFORXIA  LIFE.  5 

sion^  jiist  now  is  that  California's  an  awixi]  long  ways 
from  Xew  Hampshire.     Traveling,  3'ou  see,  Jim,  has 
not  been  much  in  my  line."     The  feeling  that  he  was 
not    appearing  to  advaiitage    came    over  him    and  he 
added  apologetically:  "I've  heard  nothing  but  the  con- 
founded rolling  of  wheels  so  long,  that  I  believe  they've 
really  got  into  my  head/  he  said,  running  his  hand 
through  his  sparse  hair.     "I  can't  say,"  he  went  on 
smiling  happily,  "as  there's  any  way  to  take  perfect 
measurement  of  my  feelings.     The  country  out  here 
has  always  been  interesting  to  me  because  it  is  so  dif- 
ferent, and,"  he  added  in  lower  tones,  "most,  Jim,  be- 
cause you  were  here.     1  could  never' forget  about  you; 
Jim;    you    know    that.     I'm    glad    I'm    here,    yes." 
Then  wishing  not  to  appear  inconsistent,  he  added: 
"Confound  it,  Jim,  surely  any  intelligent  greenhorn 
ought  to  enjoy  doing  the  thing  that  he's  been  wanting 
to  do  all  his  life."     Still  John's  mind,  owing  perhaps 
to  the  principle  of  inertia,  reverted  to  the  old  place 
and  he  continued  sedately:  "I  know  my  boy  Henry  will 
tend  to  things  all  right;  I  know  he  will  feed  the  cattle, 
and  bring  in  the  sheep  when  it  storms ;  that  he  will 
b€ld  ddw^n  old  Bess.     1  know  my  presence  is  not  espe- 
^Ml^  re^tiired^  but  yet -eiteri  since  I  left  home,"  he 
edntihued  Tuminatively,  "'i*£  seems  somehow  as  though 
I  was  forsaking  duty  because'i  am  not  there  to  do  these 
tilings,  that  I've  become"  so"  used  to  doing."     The  doc- 
tor answered  laughingly:  "l''te  no  doubt,  John,  that 
you  are  popular  with  the  animals;  1  am  i^eady  to  give 
proper  recognition  to  the  fact."     Leaning  toward  his 
brother  he  continued  meditatively:  "I  remember  how 
'The  Sorrel' used  to  jump  over  the  watering-trough  to 
follow  you,  and  how  for  you  Tige  was  always  ready  to 
engage  in  close  warfare.'   He' knew  by  instinct  when 
any  big  gawk  of  a  fellow  attempted  an  infringement 
"on  your  rights.     But  then,"  he  went  on  with  a  show 
of  indignation,  "how  did  Old  Bess  come  to  such  au- 
thority?    I'd  like  to  know  what  right  the  prosaic  crea- 
ture has  to  make  a  monopoly  of  herself.     It's  high 


6  AS   GOD    MADE    HER. 

time,  John,  you  divided  your  attention  among  your 
other  admirers.'' 

In  the  quiet  peace  of  the  radiant  morning,  the 
brothers  sat  sometime  after  this,  and  they  talked  to- 
gether about  the  struggles  of  their  early  years,  in 
which  each  had  borne  a  part.  The  doctor,  the  younger 
but  the  stronger  of  the  two  in  character  and  more  self- 
reliant,  had  left  the  New  England  farm  and  had  come 
to  California  when  quite  a  young  man;  and  his  brother 
and  wife  had  been  left  at  the  old  home  place;  and  for 
ten  years  now  John  had  lived  in  the  same  old  house 
in  which  they  had  all  been  reared.  There  was  a  little 
stor}'  connected  with  Dr.  Harding's  early  manhood. 
There  did  not  appear  to  be  much  of  sacrifice  in  the 
deed  as  he  looked  back  at  it  now,  but  it  had  amounted 
to  more  at  the  time.  When  he  had  left  the  old  home 
there  had  been  a  debt  upon  it,  and  struggle  as  they 
might  to  drive  it  away,  over  that  household  stood  the 
ogre  of  the  mortgage  which  grew  larger  and  cast  a 
deeper  shadow  year  by  year.  The  young  fellow  had 
given  up  his  own  ambitions,  sure  and  heroic  as  they 
were.  Three  times  he  had  sat  in  obscurity  in  the  au- 
dience, and  seen  the  medical  class  with  which  he  had 
studied  receive  their  diplomas  of  graduation.  While 
forced  to  neglect  study  he  had  bent  his  talents  and  his 
strength  to  supply  the  need  of  money  at  the  parental 
home,  which  grew  more  urgent  as  the  time  went  on. 
At  last  the  strain  was  over;  the  shadow  was  lifted  and 
the  old  people  spent  their  last  days  peacefully  and  died 
sheltered  by  the  homstead  roof.  John  had  idolized  his 
brother  wiien  a  boy,  and  the  eighteen  intervening  years 
of  manly  effort  and  struggle  and  sacrifice  had  not 
passed  from  his  recollection.  Sitting  there  now  in  his 
presence  again  among  the  new  and  strangely  beautiful 
surroundings,  there  came  over  him  a  sort  of  intoxica- 
tion of  the  senses.  He  tried  to  preserve  an  outward 
steadfastness  but  felt  confused.  It  was  hard  for  him 
to  tell  where  the  real  ended  and  the  ideal  began.  To 
be  near  his  brother;  to  find  that,  changed,  matured, 


A    STORY   OF   CALIFORNIA   LIFF.  7 

successful  though  he  was,  the  same  true  heart  still  l)cat 
within  his  bosom;  to  take  him  by  the  hand  again 
after  all  these  years  was  to  him  sweet  as  food  after 
painful  lack.  After  he  had  watched  his  brother's  face 
as  time  and  again  he  took  in  the  soft  sweet  picture 
about  him,  his  host,  with  an  attempt  at  calmness,  said: 
"Well,  John,  does  it  come  up  to  what  you  expected? 
You  haven't  told  me  yet."  John  would  rather  not 
have  spoken,  but  if  forced  to  speak  he  must  say  just 
what  was  in  his  heart  to  say.  He  must  be  quite  him- 
self. His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  his  brother's 
with  a  cordial  light,  then  they  wandered  restlessly  up 
into  the  blue  of  the  summer  sky,  around  again  on  the 
grass  and  the  trees,  on  the  roses  hanging  from  the  trel- 
lis, and  on  the  splendid  brilliancy  of  the  flowers  about 
him,  and  he  said  simply  in  reply:  "Goes  beyond."  He 
rubbed  his  rough,  calloused  hand  across  his  dimmed 
eyes;  he  had  to  make  an  effort  to  control  the  muscles 
of  his  face;  then  looking  up  with  a  smile  of  utter  help- 
lessness, he  said:  "You  see  I  can't  get  used  to  the  glory 
just  yet  at  once."  And  then,  confidmgly,  "Do  you 
know,  Jim,  it  really  seems  as  though  after  all  these 
years  of  separation,  we  somehow  had  met  beyond  the 
vale?'^ 


AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  housekeeper  of  Oaklawn,  a  woman  of  intelligent 
mind  and  gentle  temperament,  was  a  short  person, 
rather  stoutly  built,  with  deep,  gray  eyes  and  round, 
cheery  face.  Heavy  masses  of  soft,  brown  hair  lay 
about  her  broad,  calm  forehead.  At  the  time  of  Dr. 
Harding's  loss,  in  the  perplexity  of  his  sorrowing  soul, 
what  to  do  with  his  orphaned  child  was  the  question 
that  must  be  met.  Old  Dorcas,  his  sister,  then  a  girl 
of  twenty-five,  had  been  the  heaven-sent  solution  of 
the  difficulty.  To  her  the  gentle  request  came  as  a  pas- 
sionate, pathetic  appeal  of  human  need.  For  her 
brother's  sake  and  the  little  one's,  she  had  never  mar- 
ried. The  work  that  had  been  given  her  to  do  had 
taken  entire  possession  of  her.  For  the  child  she  had 
a  motherly  love,  mingled  with  a  generous  admiration  of 
unselfish  pride.  She  had  found  health  in  the  sweet, 
moist  air;  happiness  and  strength  for  her  task  in  her 
brother's  counsel  and  companionship;  and  now  at  mid- 
dle life,  a  placid,  sweet  content  beamed  from  her  can- 
did face. 

Dorcas  had  been  busied  in  overseeing  the  coming 
meal,  and  now  in  soft  drab  gown  and  white  apron  that 
came  to  its  hem  she  took  a  seat  with  the  others.  Her 
lips  parted  with  a  smile,  showing  splendid  white  teeth, 
as  she  said  in  a  tone  of  lingering  fondness:  "Now,  tell 
me  about  the  old  home-place." 

Nothing  is  so  settled  as  a  New  England  village. 
Cities  are  rebuilt  and  lose  their  landmarks;  govern- 
ments are  overthrown;  rivers  change  their  courses;  the 
solid  mountains  may  crumble,  but  quietly  nestled  away 
among  the  hills,  the  town  remains. 

The  travelers  talked  freely  about  the  old  place  and 
Dorcas  and  her  brother  listened,  and  when  the  infor- 
mation which  they  had  received  about  it  was  summed 
up  it  amounted  to  this:  the  old  barn  which  had  been 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  9 

the  scene  of  their  childhood  sports  was  covered  now  by 
a  slate  roof;  the  orchard  had  a  new  fence;  the  big 
cherry  tree  at  the  corner  of  the  garden  had  been  cut 
down;  the  lofty  pulpit  in  the  old  weather-browned 
meeting-house  had  been  lowered;  the  preacher  had 
come  down  more  nearly  to  a  level  with  his  people; 
there  were  many  more  graves  in  the  churchyard — the 
rest  was  the  same.  1 

The  talk  about  the  once  familiar  scenes  awakened 
the  doctor's  sleeping  memories.  The  soil  of  the  old 
home  spot  had  been  chalky  and  sterile;  the  home  was 
plain  and  low;  but  it  came  to  him  now  as  a  beautiful 
vision.  He  was  back  to  the  old  home  again.  He  saw 
tJie  small  space  of  serene  sky  about  it;  with  its  soft 
blue  and  the  white  clouds  moving  through  it.  He  saw 
the  old  house  with  the  maple  trees  before  it  and  the 
orchard  beyond.  He  saw  the  old  armchair  on  the  low 
porch  and  the  father  sitting  in  it  and  the  mother 
standing  in  the  door  behind  him.  He  saw  them  look- 
ing out  into  the  west,  and  he  knew  now  how  they  must 
have  missed  the  boy,  who  went  away  never  to  return. 

Suddenly  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  avenue  with 
a  flush  of  expectation.  Away  down  at  the  end  where 
it  branched  off  from  the  wood  appeared  a  drove  of 
greyhounds  barking  and  yelping  and  advancing  toward 
the  house  at  a  wondrous  speed.  The  moving  mass  at 
first  appeared  to  be  composed  entirely  of  lank  canine 
appendages;  but  after  a  little  coming  out  from  the 
shade  of  the  trees  the  misty  generality  began  to  take 
form,  and  the  people  looking  on  became  aware  that 
there  was  a  human  being  in  the  midst. 

It  was  the  girl  for  whom  they  were  waiting ;  and  she 
was  mounted  on  a  wheel.  She  rode  superbly  but  it 
seemed  at  a  tremendous  risk;  for  the  long,  loose  legs 
of  the  dogs  at  times  interlaced;  and  there  seemed  to  be 
an  odd  sort  of  contention  among  them,  to  see  which 
could  come  the  nearest  to  getting  a  foot  caught  in  the 
wire  spokes  of  the  wheel;  and  then,  by  some  sort  of 
scientific  accuracy  of  movement,  avert  the  disaster. 

There  was  a  wild  sort  of  excitement  in  the  chase; 


IC  AS  (WD  MADE  HER. 

sometimes  the  dogs  tumbled  precipitately  over  each 
other,  and  sometimes  the  hound  which  had  been  left 
behind  would  make  a  wild  leap  and  land  ahead  of  them 
all.  On  they  came,  now  up  the  sunny  road,  and  then 
again  through  the  tree  shadows,  and  presently  the  girl, 
with  the  whole  yelping,  yelling  accompaniment,  made 
a  brilliant  halt  at  the  steps  of  the  house.  She  glanced 
toward  the  group  on  the  porch  in  fluttering  expecta- 
tion. "I'm  always  about,  father,  when  important 
things  happen,'^  she  called  blithely  as,  without  embar- 
rassment or  self-consciousness,  she  stepped  from  her 
wheel  and  attempted  to  balance  it  against  a  tree.  She 
stood  expectantly  a  moment,  holding  the  dogs  from 
wandering  through  the  grounds,  her  dimpled  hand 
patting  first  one  and  then  another  of  their  long, 
smooth  heads. 

Here  promptly  and  conveniently  a  dark-eyed  sprite 
of  a  boy  on  a  pair  of  very  thin  legs  came  cantering 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Suddenly  in  his  swift 
forward  motion  the  boy,  Tim,  becoming  aware  that 
there  were  strangers  present,  modified  his  rate  of  mov- 
ing; holding  his  head  low  and  his  cap  in  hand  he  re- 
spectfully side-stepped  till  he  had  passed  the  point 
where  they  sat.  ''All  right,"  he  called,  "I'm  ready 
now,"  as  he  dashed  to  the  young  cyclist's  side,  grabbed 
hold  of  the  wheel,  called  the  hounds,  and  disappeared 
with  them  in  the  direction  of  the  stables. 

The  young  girl  sprang  up  the  steps,  her  big  blue  eyes 
sparkling  with  the  fun  of  the  chase;  her  rounded 
cheeks  ruddy  with  health  and  exercise;  her  face, 
framed  in  ripples  of  golden  hair,  radiant  with  smiles. 
The  suit  she  wore  was  a  handsome  gray.  It  consisted 
of  a  dainty  cap  and  well-fitted  jacket.  It  fell  from  the 
waist  in  graceful  folds  and  ended  at  the  knee;  and  the 
feet  and  symmetrical  lower  limbs  were  encased  in  high 
shoes  of  the  same  soft  shade.  The  suit  was  pretty, 
])ecoming  and  graceful,  and  gave  perfect  freedom  to 
her  flexible  form.  For  a  moment  she  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  steps,  the  very  incarnation  of  happy,  joyous, 
shadowless  youth. 


.4    STORY   OF   CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  H 


CHAPTER  III. 

There  was  a  grave  look  on  Dr.  Harding's  face  at  the 
time,  yet  perhaps  never  in  his  life  had  there  been  a 
moment  of  so  much  pride,  for  the  opportunity  had 
come,  when  he  was  permitted  to  present  to  his  people 
for  the  first  time,  his  loved  child.  Various  emotions 
were  struggling  within  him,  and  though  he  spoke  in  an 
undertone,  there  was  a  sort  of  transport  in  his  voice 
as  he  said:  "John' — Ehoda — this  is  the  daughter  Mary 
left  me."  The  girl  went  up  the  steps  and  stood  be- 
tween the  two.  With  a  simple  earnestness  she  gave  a 
pretty,  dimpled  hand  to  each  and  glancing  from  one  to 
the  other  of  their  guests  she  said  with  warm  hospital- 
ity: "We've  been  looking  for  you  a  long  time;  it  would 
be  hard  to  make  you  understand  how  glad  we  are  that 
you  are  here."  The  words  fell  musically  from  her  ripe 
lips.  As  she  spoke  there  was  in  her  such  subtle 
warmth  of  life,  such  freshness  of  soul,  and  such  exu- 
berant vitality.  She  seemed  so  sunnily  content,  a  crea- 
ture all  health,  and  life,  and  joy;  all  curves  and  rosi- 
ness;  a  complete  and  perfect  thing,  a  fit  representation 
of  what  the  Creative  Hand,  unhindered,  was  capable. 
A  moment  later,  taking  her  cap  from  her  head,  she  had 
gone  over  and  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  veran- 
da, near  her  father's  side,  and  the  unaffected  joy  at 
seeing  him  happy  glowed  in  her  fair  face  and  in  her 
bright  eyes. 

Before  his  arrival  John  Harding  had  tried  to  form 
some  sort  of  an  estimate  of  her,  this  precious,  only 
child  of  his  brother.  He  had  come  prepared  to  look 
upon  her  with  affectionate  partiality.  Now  that  she 
was  thete  before  him  in  rounded,  healthy  flesh,  he 
could  only  feel  how  inadequate  had  been  his  estimate. 
There  was  something  strange  to  him  in  the  attraction 


X2  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

of  the  bright,  sunny  face.  A  rare  measure  of  the  sun- 
light seemed  mingled  with  her  soft,  abundant  hair. 
There  was  a  singularly  ripe  sweetness  in  the  rich,  full 
mouth,  with  the  dimples  playing  around  it;  a  delicacy 
in  the  tinting  of  the  cheek,  a  smoothness  in  its  contour, 
and  a  new  and  peculiar  grace  and  strength  in  the  sup- 
ple, rounded  form.  John  Harding  was  not  given  to 
analyzing  his  thoughts,  while  the  attempt  to  put  his 
impression  of  the  girl  before  him  into  words  would 
have  appalled  the  most  eloquent. 

Weeks  afterward  they  were  sitting,  he  and  his  broth- 
er, in  the  same  place  at  the  sunset  time,  and  they  were 
talking  of  her  as  she  was  coming  across  the  grounds 
toward  them.  He  dropped  his  head  a  moment  as  if 
to  collect  himself,  rubbed  his  rough  hand  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  then  lifting  his  eyes  to  his  brother's  face 
he  said  with  a  good-natured  shake  of  the  head:  "Be- 
yond me,  Jim;  in  fit  keeping  with  the  looks  of  the 
things  that  surround  her  here.  A  true  Californian 
product.  Lord  bless  me,''  he  continued,  "if  she  isn't 
the  finest  of  them  all."  The  father  answered,  "So  you 
choose  to  place  her  among  my  botanical  specimens?  I 
realize  that  she  has  grown  up  different  from  the  ma- 
jority," he  said,  looking  after  her.  A  beautiful  light 
shown  in  his  face  as  he  continued  almost  as  though 
thinking  aloud.  "Realizing  that  my  most  cherished 
plant  was  a  creature  of  God,  I  have  left  her,  like  my 
other  plants,  almost  wholly  to  nature.  I  have  taken 
care  that  the  joyous,  abundant,  life  within  her  should 
not  be  chiecked.  She  has  lived  from  mere  love  of  life. 
She  has  not  been  cut  off,  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  deter- 
mine, from  anything  which  her  Creator  designed  her 
to  have.  She  has  grown  up  in  just  the  way  she  was 
intended  to  grow.  Just  like  some  of  the  others  out 
there,"  and  he  stretched  his  hands  out  over  the  beau- 
tiful grounds.  "She  has  opened  up  in  the  sunlight  in 
her  own  fair  fashion.  She  has  never  been  strained  or 
pinched  or  frozen.  "You're  right,  John."  A  mo- 
ment later  he  added  sadly,  and  with  an  air  of  disquie- 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  13 

tilde:  ^'1  only  hope,  John,  that  when  I  am  gone,  and 
am  not  here  to  provide  for  her  what  her  nature  de- 
mands, she  may  still  be  permitted  to  live  in  the  same 
genial  atmosphere. 

Filled  with  intense  curiosity,  the  girl  looked  on  pon- 
dering and  wondering.     She  held  within  her  a  realized 
sense  of  disappointment.     She   knew   in  a  vague   way 
something  of  the  mercilessness  of  the  Eastern  winter. 
Eeared  as  she  had  been,  the  severity  of  New  Hampshire 
climate  had  been  an  unintelligible  thing  to  her,  but 
now  as  she  studied  these  people  she  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  life  so  unlike  her  own. 
She  noted    the  thin    and  cavernous    cheeks    and    her 
aunt's  rigid  frame.     She  found  Uncle  John  ever  so  lit- 
tle like   her  father.     A  momentary   seriousness    came 
over  her,  and  with  a  shiver  she  decided  it  must  be  a 
dreadful  country,  and  bleak  and  cruel,  to  make  people 
who  live  in  it  look  as  these  folks  looked.     It  was  x\unt 
Ehoda  who  spoke  next,  and  the  discordant  tone  of  her 
voice  sent  a  thrill  through  the  girl.     She  said:  "Doyt! 
is  that  what  you  call  her?     You  must  have  named  her, 
and  then  I  don't   see  how   you  ever   got  her  mother's 
consent.     Why,  it's  not  a  girl's  name  and  it's  not  a 
boy's  name.     It's  not  like  anybody's  name  that  I  ever 
heard  of."'    The    Doctor  made  pleasant    reply:  "And 
why  must  it  be  like  anybody's  name,  Rhoda?     Aren't 
we  never  to  be  permitted   to  do  anything   new?     Just 
because  we  are  late  in  the  scheme  of  creation,  it  does 
not  follow  that  we  must  kill  out  the  inventive  part  of 
our  mental  mechanism,  and  just  copy  the  whims  of 
those  who  have  gofle  before  us.     Our  modem  babies 
must  have  an  opportunity  to  assert  their  individuality. 
They  are  an  entirely  different  creation  from  the  Abra- 
hams and  the  Isaacs,  and  the  Amoses  and  the  Jacobs." 
x^unt  Ehoda  did  not  stop  to  argue  further  in  regard  to 
the  name.     She  had  something  else  on  her  mind  which 
seemed  of    infinitely  more    importance.     Doyt,  being 
bent  on  kind  courtesy  toward  their  guests,  to  her  own 
surprise,  presently  found  herself  in  a  pleasant  sort  of 


14  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

companionghip  and  almost  at  ease  with  these  strange 
people.     She    knew  that    this  had    been  her  father's 
dream  for  years;  to  get  his  brother  out  of  his  hard 
life,  out  of  his  narrow  limits,  away  from  lack  and  hard- 
ships and  to  replace  it  all  by  rest  and  continued  sun- 
shine.    The  conversation   between  the  brothers  gener- 
ally drifted  back  again  to  the  region  of  their  boyhood, 
and  as  Doyt  listened,  one  dimpled  hand  clutched  the 
pillar  behind  her,  her  head  leaning  against  the  rounded 
column,  she  realized  for  the  first  time  that  her  father, 
her  great  splendid  father,  was  once  a  child.     Her  love 
for  him  made  every  hour  of  his  existence  a  matter 
of  keenest  interest  to  her.     She  listened,  open-eared, 
to  the  marvelous  stories;  with  eager  curiosity  she  heard 
them  tell  of  the  freaks  of  her  father's  boyhood,  of  what 
seemed  to  her  the  very  beginning  of  civilization;  about 
the  log-rollings,  and  the  barn-raisings,  and  the  quilt- 
ings,  and  the  corn-huskings,  and  the  sleigh-riding,  and 
about  the  school  days.     Uncle  John  recalled  the  lame 
New  England  school-master,  an  individual  of  common 
and  impressive  memory  who,  whenever  thrown  into  a 
state  of  agitation  by  the  dullness  of  a,  boy,  used  to 
whack  him  over  the  head  with  his  crutch,  a  method  of 
brain  development  peculiarly  his  own  invention.     Dor- 
cas entered  into  the  conversation  with  hearty  interest, 
and  Aunt  Rhoda  put  in  a  sentence  now  and  then  in  a 
grim  fashion.     The  doctor  gradually  drew  his  brother 
to  tell  about  the  present  condition  of  the  farm,  and 
the  work  required  to  coax  the  growth  of  crops  out  of 
the  ungenial  soil,  and  as  he  talked,  earnestly  studied 
his  furrowed  face.     "John,"  the  doctor  said,  as  walk- 
ing to  his  side  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  brother's 
shoulder,  "I  see,  in  spite  of    yourself,  I  should  have 
forced    you  to  come    away  sooner.     I  think  you  have 
earned  a  few  days'  rest,   old    boy.     I  want  you  and 
Ehoda  both  to  make    the  most  of    your    time  here. 
Don't  waste  an  instant  of  this  valuable  occasion  with 
any  sort  of  worry.     Just  dream  away  the  sunny  weeks. 
Don't  mind  my  frankness,  John;  but  time  is  telling  on 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  15 

you,  boy;  the  north  wind  has  had  its  effect;  you  look 
horribly  cut  up  and  care-worn.  Xo,  don't  deny  it/' 
he  said  as  his  brother  attempted  to  speak.  He  went 
on  feelingly,  "That  look  you  wear  is  a  reproach  to  me. 
I  had  forgotten  how  hard  life  was  with  you.  I  have 
been  living  here  comfortably  and  quietly,  escaping  all 
the  storms  and  hardships  and  enjoying  so  much  of  the 
fullness  of  life  and  you  so  little."  His  brother  heard 
him  through;  then  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed  man- 
ner, he  got  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  looking  aside  he 
smoothed  down  his  withered  face,  then  turning  again 
he  said,  with  a  show  of  impatience:  "Good  gracious, 
Jim,  if  I  had  known  that  you  expected  me  to  be  hand- 
some, I  shouldn't  have  come";  then  added  apologeti- 
cally: "It's  a  long  time  since  you  came  away,  you  know, 
and  Ehoda  and  I  are  growing  old."  The  brother  re- 
sponded: "I  did  not  mean  to  intimate  that  you  are  not 
good  looking;  I  mean  only  to  say  that  you  do  not  look 
as  though  you  were  getting  the  good  out  of  life.  Yes, 
I  know,  and  it's  all  right  for  you  to  grow  old ;  but  you 
see  you  are  not  growing  old  after  the  right  fashion. 
You're  not  holding  together  properly.  I  see  I  ought 
to  have  brought  you  out  sooner.  I've  let  this  thing  go 
on  too  long,  old  fellow,"  he  continued,  solicitously. 
"Now,  just  forget  all  about  your  corn-gathering  and 
your  tree-felling  and  your  wood-sawing,  and  sit  still 
here  and  let  this  sunshine  saturate  you  through  and 
through.  Sunshine  is  the  best  medicine;  the  only 
trouble  is  that  people  get  so  little  leisure  to  take  the 
proper  doses.  As  a  rejuvenator,  John,  it  can't  be  sur- 
passed. A  little  while  here  and  you'll  be  all  right,  and 
as  handsome  as  you'd  care  to  be."  "I'll  try  and  take 
your  advice."  A  new  idea  entering  his  head,  he  said 
humbly:  "But  look  here,  Jim,  seriously,  your  way  of 
looking  at  things  is  entirely  new  to  me;  you're  talking 
as  though  it  was  but  for  people  to  take  life  easy. 
Now,  I've  always  thought  that  folks  didn't  amount  to 
much  without  they  had  something  to  fight — storms, 
weevil,    drought,    hard    winds,    frost,  debts,  enemies. 


1(3  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

I've  always  thought  that  it  was  just  these  kind  of 
things  that  has  been  the  making  of  a  fellow,  but  then 
you  see  we've  been  living  a  long  ways  apart  and  we've 
a  different  way  of  looking  at  it  from  the  other  side." 
"Just  another  mistaken  idea,  John,  like  that,  that 
some  of  you  eastern  people  hold,  that  you've  got  to 
freeze  the  marrow  in  your  spine  every  winter  in  order 
that  you  may  have  good  health  the  ensuing  summer. 
The  plant  may  be  crushed  by  footsteps  and  wilted  by 
frost  and  twisted  by  storms,  but  I  never  could  see  that 
it  was  in  any  way  aided  in  its  growth  by  any  of  them. 
You've  fought,  John,  you  know,  because  you  have  had 
to,  not  as  you  would  try  to  make  me  believe,  with  an  eye 
to  your  ultimate  good  development.  At  any  rate,  I  in- 
tend for  you  to  do  without  hardships  for  a  while.  You'll 
have  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  a  northeaster,  for  in- 
stance, for  some  time  now.  You've  come  round  to  the 
sunny  side  of  the  earth  and  I  want  you  to  drink  in  the 
warmth  and  comfort  of  it.  If  there  is  anything  in 
your  theory,  you've  had  enough  already  to  develop  the 
best  that  is  in  you." 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORyiA   LIFE.  17 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AMien  Dorcas  went  in  to  prepare  the  table  for  lunch- 
eon, Doyt  was  recalled  to  herseli.  Bowing,  she  made 
excuse  for  leaving  and  said  in  a  practical  way:  '^I  have 
something  to  do.  Save  some  of  your  stories  till  I  get 
back,  Uncle  John,'^  she  called  out  as  she  passed  down 
the  walk. 

They  looked  after  her  as  she  moved  away  among  the 
flowers.  The  light  breeze  lifted  the  loose  masses  of 
her  hair,  unfolding  to  their  gaze  its  golden  tinge. 
Outdoor  life,  and  freedom  and  fresh,  clean  air,  had 
given  rosin  ess  to  her  cheeks,  soft  curves  to  her  form, 
and  grace  to  her  limbs.  The  joy  of  living  w^as  in  her. 
As  they  watched  her,  in  her  walk  there  was  such 
smoothness,  as  to  make  the  motion  appear  magical. 
They  noted  the  delicate  poise  of  the  head,  the  evenly 
balanced  frame,  the  ease  of  action,  the  springy  step, 
the  graceful  stretch  of  the  limbs  from  the  hip-joint, 
the  seemingly  small  expenditure  of  energy.  She  had 
not  been  trained;  she  had  no  need  of  a  teacher  to  ac- 
quire the  art  of  moving  with  ease,  any  more  than  does 
the  graceful,  agile  mouutain  fawn.  The  skilled  Hand 
that  made  her  had  taken  the  same  or  greater  care  in 
the  shaping,  adapting  and  adjustment  of  bone,  muscle, 
tendon,  and  nerve;  and,  like  the  chamois  or  the  ante- 
lope, she  simply  brought  into  use  her  nntrammeled 
abilities.  It  is  no  wonder  that  human  eyes  look  upon 
such  movement  bewildered,  for  the  privilege  of  activ- 
ity, the  ease,  beauty,  and  grace  of  woman^s  walk,  the 
means  for  which  have  been  so  elaborately  provided, 
have  been  lost  to  the  civilized  world.  For  untold  gen- 
erations the  limbs  have  been  hampered,  the  swell  of 
the  muscles  checked,  the  well-contrived  springiness 
crushed  out,  the  long,  quick  stroke  hindered,  the  full 


18  A'S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

stride,  obstructed,  the  many  jointed,  live,  pliant,  flexi- 
ble foot  crushed  into  leather  casings,  as  though  it  were 
formed  of  one  solid  bone.  All  the  intricate  design,  all 
the  exquisite  work,  all  the  delicate  molding,  all  the 
marvelous  mechauism,  all  the  creative  skill,  wasted  and 
lost. 

As  the  party  on  the  veranda  looked  after  her,  Doyt 
left  the  walk,  went  the  width  of  the  lawn,  and  stooped 
to  gather  some  Adolets  which  grew  there.  There  was 
a  heavy  frown  on  Aunt  Ehoda's  spare  brow,  as  though 
the  repression  could  be  endured  no  longer;  hitching 
her  thin  figure  further  back  into  her  chair  she  said: 
"That  shows  what  comes  from  a  girl  growing  up  with- 
out a  mother.  I'd  sorter  hoped,  though,  that  Dorcas 
would  take  a  hand  in  the  raising  of  her.''  The  doctor 
looked  across  the  yard  to  where  his  daughter  stood 
bunching  together  the  flowers  she  had  culled,  and  re- 
sponded eagerly  and  v^ith  some  display  of  proprietary 
pride  (he  received  her  words  as  congratulatory),  "A^es, 
I've  raised  her.  Dorcas  has  been  good;  she  hasn't  in- 
terfered much.  Her's  is  the  only  life  that  I  have  had 
control  of  from  the  beginning,  and,"  he  went  on  in  his 
philosophical  way,  "I've  just  tried,  you  see,  to  let  her 
grow  up  as  it  seems  to  me  she  was  designed  to  grow." 
Aunt  Ehoda  fidgeted  about  somewhat;  notwithstand- 
ing the  pleading  look  that  her  liusband  gave  her;  from 
her  construction  she  could  not  let  the  opportunity  pass 
for  a  thrust,  so  with  something  of  an  over-assumption 
of  her  privileges  as  a  relative  and  a  guest  of  the  house- 
hold she  said  sharply:  "Yes,  anybody  can  see  that  her 
father's  raised  her."  There  was  a  movement  of  sur- 
prise. "Men  will  undertake  so  many  things  for  which 
they  have  not  the  slightest  qualifications,"  she  added 
with  the  air  of  one  acquitting  herself  of  a  duty.  "If  a 
woman  had  had  any  hand  in  the  discipline,  James,  she 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  go  moving  about  the  country  like 
a  cyclone,  and  coming  in  like  she  did  a  while  ago." 
The  doctor  began  to  see  that  he  had  misunderstood. 
The  indignant  aunt  continued  in  a  tone  of  shocking 


A   STORY   OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  19 

propriety:  '^My  sakes  alive!  does  she  often  tear  around 
in  that  frantic  fashion?  \\Qiy  man,  it  was  a  Provi- 
dence that  brought  her  in  alive/'  John  sat  helplessly 
opposite  to  her,  and  the  crushed  look  in  his  furrowed 
face  had  the  effect  of  concentrating  her  attention  upon 
him.  Shrugging  up  her  spare  shoulders  she  said 
acridly:  "What's  got  into  you,  eJohn?  For  pity's  sake, 
I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  try  to  conduct  yourself  as 
if  you  were  used  to  such  ways  of  doing/'  She  added 
in  lower  tone  and  leaning  toward  him,  "Don't  go  to 
wavering  about  now,  John,  and  to  acting  delirious, 
just  because  you're  in  California."  Then  she  straight- 
ened herself  up  again,  and  smiling  grimly  with  an  air 
that  said:  "You're  foolish  if  you  expect  me  to  appear 
as  if  I  were  either  blind  or  dumb,  just  because  I'm 
away  from  home."  iSTobody  spoke,  and  accordingly 
with  full  faith  in  her  own  infallibility  she  continued 
the  attack:  "The  girl  ought  to  have  been  reared  by 
somebody  who  would  have  encouraged  her  finer  senti- 
ments. Men  can't  understand."  She  pitched  her 
voice  in  a  higher  key  and  what  followed  came  with  a 
sort  of  desperation.  "What  I  want  to  know  is,"  she 
said,  "how  you  can  expect  anything  from  a  girl 
dressed  in  that  heathenish  style"?  She  half  arose 
from  her  chair  and  stretched  out  her  long,  bony  arin 
to  its  full  length;  pointing  across  the  yard  she  added 
with  emphasis:  "The  girl's  got  on  bloomers!" 

The  doctor  was  disconcerted  for  a  moment;  through 
his  pride  in  his  young  daughter  he  had,  it  is  true,  an- 
ticipated the  impression  she  would  make  upon  his 
eastern  visitors,  but  he  had  dwelt  only  on  the  effect  of 
her  active  mind,  her  character,  her  sunny  nature,  her 
perfection  of  health,  and  her  activity;  but  most  of  all 
upon  her  unartificiality.  It  was  a  shock  of  surprise  to 
him  that  his  sister-in-law  had  overlooked  these  things 
of  moment,  and  had  seemingly  taken  notice  only  of  the 
minor  details  of  dress.  Tie  was  a  man  of  discernment 
and  discrimination:  he  had  acted  conscientiously,  and 
he  was  ready  to  defend  the  system  used  in  the  rearing 


20  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

of  his  only  child;  yet  he  hesitated  a  moment  for  he 
hardly  knew  how  to  make  his  position  understood. 

At  the  extreme  limits  of  our  country,  vegetable 
growths  from  the  same  seed  even  are  so  metamor- 
phosed that  the  kinship  is  hardly  recognized;  so  people 
of  the  same  birth  and  lineage  under  the  widely 
changed  conditions  grow  to  such  different  habits  of 
thought  as  hardly  to  be  intelligible  to  each  other. 
This  was  the  present  condition  of  things.  The  doctor 
was  courteous  by  nature.  There  lingered  only  a  slight 
expression  of  disappointment  in  his  face;  as,  smiling 
at  her  irritation,  he  spoke  in  a  soothing,  conciliatory 
tone:  "Its  kind  of  you,  I  am  sure,  to  be  interested;  but, 
Ehoda,  it^s  an  infinite  source  of  pleasure  to  me  that 
she  is  able  to  move  about  briskly.  I  want  her  to  have 
full  use  of  her  splendid  faculties;  I  am  glad  to  let  her 
do  what  she  is  capable  of  doing.  If  I  had  hampered 
her  I  should,  have  killed  out  all  the  best  th?,t  was  in 
her."  Suddenly  he  added,  "If  she  w^ere  a  boy,  now, 
you  would  not  object.  I  have  studied  the  human  form, 
and  I  know  by  her  anatomy  that  she  is  just  as  accur- 
ately constructed  and  just  as  lavishly  fitted  for  action 
as  if  she  had  been  a  boy.  She  has  just  as  much  enjoy- 
ment in  air  and  light  and  sunshine  and  freedom,  and 
just  as  much  need  of  them."  He  continued  defensive- 
ly: "You  don't  expect  me  to  make  an  insignificant 
weakling  out  of  my  child — my  best  possession — while 
I  rear  my  cattle  and  horses  with  care?"  He  grew  in- 
tensely earnest  now:  "She's  too  wonderful  a  piece  of 
mechanism  to  go  to  waste  or  to  develop  only  into  a 
shadow  of  what  she  was  made  to  be.  You  don't  like 
the  way  we  are  rearing  her"?  He  repeated  the  words 
as  if  their  purport  were  difficult  to  comprehend. 
"There's  not  a  discord  anywhere  in  her  whole  organ- 
ism. Why,  woman,"  he  went  on  proudly,  "her  digestion 
and  her  assimilation  are  simply  perfect;  her  lungs  are 
sound,  her  heart  beats  like  a  trip-hammer;  every  or- 
gan is  in  perfect  working  order;  and  then  she's  strong, 
she's  good,  she's  clever,  she's  happy.     As  long  as  I  am 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  21 

certain  that  slie  has  attained  to  these  desirable  condi- 
tions, 1  don't  see  why  I  have  any  occasion  to  worry 
about  the  methods." 

Looking  at  the  matter  in  the  light  of  science,  it  dis- 
turbed the  man  so  naturally  mild,  to  think  that  any 
woman  was  so  stupid  in  regard  to  her  natural  faculties 
as,  for  any  reason,  to  suffer  herself  to  be  trammeled 
until  she  grew  infirm  and  debilitated.  It  had  been  a 
long  time  since  he  had  met  with  one  who  had  the  ef- 
frontery in  his  presence,  though  it  had  been  a  custom 
once,  to  complacently  attempt  to  make  out  of  woman's 
inability  to  move,  a  Christian  grace.  He  controlled 
himself,  however,  and  talked  on  tranquilly:  ^'You  will 
agree  with  me,  Ehoda,  that  it  is  the  welfare  of  the  girl, 
that  is  of  the  highest  moment.  What  she  wears  is  at 
best  only  secondary.  At  any  rate,  no  dress  is  proper, 
except  it  is  suited  to  the  life  and  pursuits  of  the  in- 
dividual. The  dress  she  has  on  is,  I  am  sure,  a  simple, 
serviceable  garb.''  The  words  came  from  his  lips  with 
pure,  scholarly  accent  but  he  spoke  them  more  as 
though  he  were  making  to  himself  a  statement  of  the 
condition  of  things  than  as  of  si>eaking  to  her."  He 
continued:  "1  have  felt  that  it  was  an  entirely  rational 
proceding  for  her  to  wear  it.  I  have  felt  only  that  it 
was  suitable.  I  have  never  stopped  to  study  whether 
there  was  any  deficiency  in  it,  in  an  artistic  sense  or 
not.  But  candidly,"  he  said,  looking  up  suddenly,  "I 
never  could  see  that  the  skirt,  whose  place  it  takes, 
had  much  to  recommend  it,  except  that  the  custom  of 
wearing  it  has  become  fixed."  He  spoke  now  from  his 
large  experience  as  a  physician.  He  said:^Tf  it  were 
desirable  to  render  woman  helpless  and  slow-footed  and 
weak-backed,  the  skirt  is  the  proper  invention.  When 
left  to  choose,  the  alternative  seems  to  be — the  semi- 
invalid  in  petticoats  or  the  free,  grand  woman  in 
bloomers."  He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  his 
brother  caught  the  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  spoke  again: 
"As  for  those  indecorous  garments,  why,  really,  there 
are  but  few  things  for  which  I   have   such   reverence. 


22  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

All  humankind  should  be  grateful  for  the  better  con- 
dition of  things  they  have  brought.  To  me,  you  see, 
they  stand  as  an  emblem  of  freedom — woman's  free- 
dom. I  should  be  sorry  for  you  to  attack  them, 
Khoda,  for  in  that  case  1  should  be  called  upon  to  de- 
fend them  with  my  life.  There  is  but  one  other  fabric 
I  so  highly  honor.  In  my  regard,  you  see,  they  stand 
next  to  the  flag  of  my  country.'' 

Those  who  heard  him  talk  now  had  no  way  of  know- 
ing that,  years  before,  the  great,  tall  man,  at  the  time 
all  tortured  and  shaken  by  the  tragedy  of  birth,  while 
he  chafed  the  frail,  new-born  thing  from  whose  closed 
lips  no  cry  had  yet  come,  had  said  affectingly,  though 
the  words  were  not  spoken  aloud:  "jSTot  going  to  try  to 
live?  After  all  the  trouble  to  get  here,  not  going  to 
try  to  stay  ?"  When  there  seemed  no  hope — ''Perhaps 
you're  right,  perhaps  you  had  better  give  up.  You're 
only  a  woman,  child,  and  there's  a  hard  road  ahead." 
That  he  strove  with  a  restless,  nervous  energy  to  re- 
store the  spark  of  life  and  presently,  with  changed 
voice,  spoke  again:  "You  will  live,  eh,  little  one"? 
\¥hile  great  tears  of  joy  and  thankfulness  rained  from 
his  eyes,  he  wrapped  her  warmly  and  clutched  her  little 
form  closely  to  his  bosom  and  said:  "Woman-like,  you 
are  going  to  make  the  sacrifice  and  live  for  my  sake." 
They  had  no  way  of  knowing  that  then  and  there  his 
heart  welling  up  in  gratitude  for  the  gift  of  a  child,  he 
had  voAved  that  by  the  aid  of  best  medical  science,  and 
with  the  use  of  all  the  powers  of  his  l)rain,  and  with 
all  the  energy  of  his  life,  she  should,  in  defiance  of  rule 
and  custom,  have  the  right  to  live,  as  she  was  designed 
to  live,  and  be  saved  from  the  suffering  common  to 
womankind. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  23 


CHAPTER  V. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  girl;  she  and  Dorcas  coming  ont 
through  the  front  door  to  call  them  in  to  luncheon. 

When  the  Aunt  had  arisen  and  folded  up  her  hand- 
kerchief, the  girl  came  toward  her  holding  in  her 
hand  a  bunch  of  violets,  whose  faint,  sweet  fragrance 
filled  the  air  about  them.  Her  manner  was  still  grace- 
ful and  free,  and  she  had  lost  none  of  her  childish 
bloom;  yet  she  appeared  almost  womanly  in  height 
now,  and  looked  dazzingly  pretty  and  smiling.  As  a 
preliminary  measure  perhaps,  toward  infusing  some- 
thing of  the  summer  warmth  into  her,  she  pinned  the 
flowers  to  the  sparse  bosom  of  her  aunt's  black  dress; 
and  afterward,  bending  her  pretty  head  to  survey  the 
effect,  she  laid  her  soft  hand  against  the  withered 
check  in  pity. 

Aunt  Rhoda  was  one  of  those  people  who  take  every 
favor  as  her  due,  showed  no  gratitude  and  never  ac- 
knowledged an  obligation.  She  scrutinized  her  closely; 
she  did  not  thank  her  for  the  violets;  she  did  not  en- 
courage the  air  of  friendliness;  took  no  notice  of  the 
silent  caress,  but  as  she  was  about  to  turn  away  to  fol- 
low Dorcas  into  the  house,  surveying  the  girl  from 
head  to  foot,  she  remarked  with  some  severity:  "My 
dear,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  clothed  again  and  in  your 
right  mind.^^ 

It  was  owing  as  much  to  the  love  that  had  always 
surrounded  her  as  to  the  tender  atmosphere  about  her, 
that  the  girl  throve  and  grew  beautiful,  but  her  father, 
while  always  kind,  had  trained  her  to  the  wholesome 
theory  that  people  are  spared  much  pain  who  lose  the 
edge  of  their  sensitiveness. 


24  ^^'S'  GOD  MADS  HER. 

Doyt  looked  into  her  aunt's  face  a  moment,  her  eyes 
wide  open  with  wonder.  She  could  not  see  any  reason 
why  their  guest  should  be  hostile  toward  herself,  and 
though  she  could  hardly  understand  her  attitude,  she 
concluded  her  intentions  must  be  good,  and  resolved 
that  at  any  rate  she  wasn't  going  to  be  foolish  enough 
to  make  herself  miserable  over  an  uncertainty. 

Uncle  John,  fully  conscious  of  the  lack  of  courtesy, 
made  a  timorous  effort  at  atonement.  There  was  an 
awkward  fumbling  of  the  hands  as  he  said,  clumsily, 
looking  toward  the  violets  which  seemed  already  to 
shrink  from  the  chilliness  of  their  locality:  ^'Why, 
Doyt,  I  never  saw  such  a  fine  lot  of  'Johnny-jump-ups' 
before,"  looking  compassionately  into  the  pretty  child 
face,  "and  blooming  here  at  Christmas  time,'^  he  went 
on.  "They  don't  grow  very  big  in  our  country;  they 
are  kind  of  chary,  you  know,  about  sticking  up  their 
heads  at  all,  not  knowing  at  what  moment  they  may 
get  nipped." 

The  party  walked  through  the  wide  hall,  and  toward 
the  dining-room,  Uncle  John  behind,  with  Doyt  in 
royal  spirits  walking  close  to  his  elbow.  The  uncle 
listened  with  profound  attention  while  she  kept  chat- 
tering away.  "It's  funny  to  think,"  she  said,  peeping 
up  into  his  face,  "that  all  these  years  you've  been  my 
uncle  and  I've  never  seen  you  once."  John  answered 
her,  looking  her  over,  "And  you've  grown  to  all  this 
height  and  I've  never  seen  you."  What  he  felt  was — 
"Having  seen  you,  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  ever  wanted 
to  take  my  eyes  off  you  again."  Presently,  "This  is 
our  jubilee  time,  you  see,  Uncle  John,"  she  said  cheer- 
ily. "We've  always  been  waiting  to  hold  it,  when  you 
folks  from  the  East  came."  She  stopped  suddenly,  then 
resumed,  "I've  had  a  craving  for  this."  "What?"  he 
said.  "Why,  the  privilege,"  she  went  on  in  an  explan- 
atory tone,  "'of  looking  at  you,  and  the  privilege  of 
hearing  you  talk,  and,"  she  hesitated  a  little,  then  com- 
pleted the  sentence,  "the  privilege  of  showing  you 
California.       Father,  do  you  know,  has  always  been 


A    STORY  OF   CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  25 

afraid  that  I  doirt  appreciate  California.  He  thinks  I 
can't,  because  I  have  always  been  here,  and  have  never 
known  anything  about  other  places  that  are  not  so 
nice.  I  do  though;  I  love  it/'  she  added  confidingly. 
As  they  neared  the  dining-room,  she  said  again:  "We 
have  been  afraid,  seeing  you  have  come  so  far,  that 
maybe  you  folks  would  be  homesick,  you  know,"  He 
replied.  "After  being  so  courteously  received  by  you 
all  here,  that  certainly  would  be  a  very  unappreciative 
thing  for  a  man  to  do;  don't  you  think  so"?  He  felt 
so  strongly  the  effect  of  her  sunny  personality,  that  he 
added  with  great  honesty  of  heart:  "As  long  as  you  al- 
low me  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  I  don't  feel. that 
I  shall  have  to  make  any  desperate  resolutions  to  keep 
myself  from  it."  She  had  already  discovered  her 
Uncle's  warm  heart.  "I  always  knew  I  should  like 
you.  Uncle  John,  because — "  she  paused  a  moment 
then  said,  "because  you  are  my  father's  brother";  and 
as  they  passed  through  the  door  together  she  added 
frankly,  feeling  themselves  already  established  on  pret- 
ty good  terms  of  fellowship,  "But  T  didn't  think  you 
would  like  me  so  soon." 

Accustomed  as  their  guests  were  to  the  stiff  simplic- 
ity of  their  Kew  England  home,  the  room  into  which 
they  were  ushered  appeared  a  magic  creation.  The  sun 
came  in  at  the  broad  windows  in  soft  waves  of  warmth 
and  lit  up  the  apartment  in  rich  color  and  glow  and 
splendor.  It  flung  diamonds  on  the  well-spread  table 
and  sparkled  among  the  glasses  and  danced  in  clusters 
of  golden  spots  on  the  tinted  wall. 

Doyt,  during  the  half  hour  after  she  had  left  the 
veranda,  had  been  busy.  She  had  placed  flowers  every- 
where. There  were  roses,  fresh  culled,  on  the  mantle, 
collections  of  cheery-faced  pansies,  huge  vases  of  feath- 
ery chrysanthemums,  great  sheaves  of  pure  white  lilies, 
creamy  masses  of  sweet  peas,  clusters  of  carnations  and 
bunches  of  golden  poppies  placed  here  and  there,  till, 
although  it  was  mid-December,  the  glad  summer  time 
seemed  to  have  entered  the  room  and  filled  it.     On  the 


26  A*Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

sideboard  were  baskets  of  rich  tropical  fruits  and  nuts, 
and  through  the  open  window  came  tlie  merry  calls 
and  trills  of  birds. 

Ehoda  looked  all  about  the  room.  She  surveyed  the 
bright  carpet,  the  wall  decorations,  the  dainty  cur- 
tains; she  looked  the  table  over  with  a  house-keep- 
er's scrutinizing  eye  and  the  result  of  the  exam- 
ination seemed  satisfactory.  Her  keen  vision  fell  upon 
the  assemblage  of  lilies.  With  alert  step  she  walked 
across  and  leaning  over  the  big  vase  which  held  them 
she  gazed  curiously  at  the  waxen  blossoms  bunched  to- 
gether there.  .  A  deeper  shadow  came  over  the  sunken 
face.  She  straightened  up  with  promptitude  and  turn- 
ing toward  the  others,  while  eager  solicitude,  amaze- 
ment, and  indignation  Av-ere  blended  in  her  voice  as 
she  called  out,  "You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
pick  calla  lilies  here!' 

The  little  tim.id  things  she  had  been  used  to  in  her 
Green  Mountain  home  had  only  been  kept  alive  with 
much  nursing  and  the  encouraging  aid  of  a  base- 
burner  stove.  From  their  very  fragility  they  had  been 
held  sacred.  Such  a  struggle  d-eserved  respect  any- 
where. 

Dorcas  remembered  very  well  in. what  estimation 
they  were  held  in  Baxter.  She  recalled  the  fact  now; 
she  remembered  well  how  the  formation  of  a  bud  was 
a  topic  of  conversation  among  the  neighbors,  how  the 
bursting  of  a  bnd  into  full  bloom  flew  about  the  town 
as  a  piece  of  news  and  was  an  item  for  the  newspapers. 
She  recalled  all  now — how  the  spindling  thing  was 
propped  and  wrapped  and  carried  to  the  church  for 
public  display  as  well  as  pulpit  decoration,  and  how  for 
same  time  thereafter  the  owner  of  the  plant  enjoyed 
distinction  araong  the  townspeople.  Dorcas,  recalling 
all  this,  could  readily  see  what  a  grievous  sin  they  had 
been  guilty  of  in  the  eyes  of  their  guest.  She  said 
soothingly,  in  an  explanatory  way,  standing  at  her 
side,  "If  we  had  only  one,  Rhoda,  and  it  cost  us  so 
much  care  as  yours  at  home  costs  you,  we  should  hes- 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  27 

itate  to  cut  off  the  struggling  thing  in  the  midst  of  its 
pathetic  effort  at  growth,  but  you  see  we  have  an 
abundance  here.  You  can't  form  any  conception  of 
the  way  these  lilies  grow  here  till  you.  have  seen  them. 
After  dinner  we  will  take  you  out  and  show  you  the 
long  array.''  The  doctor  added  with  gallantry,  ^'Yes, 
lihoda,  after  dinner  you  look  into  this  thing  and  de- 
cide what  you  want  us  to  do,  and  hereafter  it  shall  be 
iust  as  you  say.  ^Ye  shall  gather  the  lilies  by  the  bushel 
at  your  order  or  they  shall  remain  out  there  where 
they  grow  in  all  their  stately  loveliness,  unmolested. 
If  we  make  mistakes  and  show  unholy  familiarity  with 
sacred  things  you  must  set  us  right.  Come,"  he  said, 
"we've  kept  you  waiting  dinner  too  long.  Sit  down; 
eat  now  and  we  will  ^consider  the  lilies'  afterwards"; 
and  they  all  sat  down,  the  brothers  and  sister  Dorcas, 
who  had  been  accustomed  in  the  fa^-away  home  to 
gather  about  the  same  table,  sat  down  to  break  bread 
together  for  the  first  time  in  more  than  a  score  of 
vears. 


28  ''i-8  (JOI)  MADE  HEIi. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'''I  wouldn't  for  apy thing  in  the  world  interfere 
with  his  plans  in  regard  to  his  daughter.  I  really  do 
not  see  any  reason  for  doing  so.  His  methods  with 
her  are  always  so  quiet  and  gentle,  and  her  reverence 
for  him  is  perfect.  I  couldn't  find  fault  with  my 
hrother,  Ehoda;  he  is  always  so  good  and  his  judgment 
,so  true.'"  This  was  what  Dorcas  said  to  her  sister-in- 
law  as  they  were  going  from  room  to  room  over  the 
house,  the  latter  individual  continuing  on  the  same 
theme  that  had  occupied  her  mind  in  the  morning. 
Inspired  by  an  almost  motherly  affection,  the  benign 
Dorcas  continued:  "As  for  the  way  she  dresses  when 
riding;  pardon  my  prejudice,  Ehoda,  but  I  thought  she 
looked  remarkably  pretty  when  she  came  in  to-day." 
Ehoda  rejoined  almost  involuntarily,  "Looked  pretty! 
As  if  that  was  all  that  was  required.  She'd  look 
pretty  no  matter  what  outlandish  rig  you'd  put  on 
her."  She  had  been  exasperated  by  her  brother-in- 
law's  total  inappreciation  of  his  own  deficiency  in  the 
matter  of  training  children,  but  she  found  it  more 
tantalizing  still  for  his  sister  to  defend  him.  She 
added  sourly,  "I've  always  heard  that  men  lose  their 
minds  that  study  bones  and  make  a  business  of  blood 
shedding  and  such  things.  I  don't  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  surprised  at  James'  way  of  doing,  but  I  didn't 
look  for  you  to  agree  with  his  wild  notions."  She 
turned  squarely  toward  her  hostess,  and  looking  into 
her  face  with  fixed  gaze  for  a  moment,  said:  "Dorcas 
Harding,  how  you  have  changed  since  you  came  West!" 
As  she  finished  the  sentence  they  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room of  the  house,  a  beautiful  apartment  which 
stretched  across  the  building.  The  windows  on  two 
sides  looked  out  on  the  lawn;  those  of  a  third  opened 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  29 

into  a  conservatorv,  where  under  a  roof  and  sides  of 
glass  were  massed  together  thrifty  growths  of  pahns 
and  ferns,  and  bathed  in  sun  rays,  plants  of  rich,  glossy 
foliage  and  orchids  daintily  colored.  On  one  side 
were  masses  of  begonia  and  purple  cineraria,  while  the 
drowsy  air  was  ladened  with  their  rare  fragrance.  In 
the  room  inself  were  musical  instruments  and  low 
shelves  filled  with  books,  and  an  ebony  cabinet  and 
paintings  and  a  few  odd  bits  of  statuary.  Over  the 
mantle  was  hung  a  painting  of  the  young  mother, 
under  which  the  daughter  often  stood,  peering  into 
the  tender  eyes,  studying  the  smiling  red  lips,  and 
trying  to  recall  the  tone  of  her  mothers  voice,  and  to 
picture  how  her  own  life  would  have  been  had  that 
mother  lived. 

Though  simple  in  its  arrangement,  about  the  house 
everywhere  there  hung  a  singular,  nameless  charm. 
Here  were  evidence  of  plans  for  health,  schemes  for 
comfort,  palpable  device  for  cheer,  elegance  of  taste 
and  harmony  of  color.  The  wide  sleeping-rooms  on 
the  second  floor  were  attractively  fresh  and  sunny. 
The  great  square  hall  below  with  its  stained  glass 
windows  and  carpet  in  rich  red  color  and  its  broad 
stairs  at  one  side  had  a  hospitable  look.  The  dining- 
room  wore  always  an  air  of  genial  good  fellowship; 
the  red  roses  climbed  even  into  the  kitchen  windows; 
and  under  Dorcas'  direction  the  pot  boiled  joyously, 
the  shining  pans  and  tins  reflected  the  light,  and  order 
and  cleanliness  completed  the  peculiar  attraction. 

Off  the  long  room  below  was  the  library,  smaller  in 
dimensions  than  the  other,  its  low  windows  opening 
out  on  the  veranda.  Besides  the  many  cases  of  books 
and  a  long  table  strewn  with  magazines,  papers,  manu- 
script and  writing  material;  there  was  near  the 
window  a  broad  couch  with  pillows,  and  the  great 
leathern  chairs  with  which  the  place  was  furnished 
seemed  to  invite  vou  to  rest  in  their  cosy  depths. 

After  dinner,  in  the  evening,  it  was  in  this  room  that 
the  doctor  and  his  daus^hter  and  often  Dorcas  retired, 


30  '      AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

sometimes  for  reading,  but  oftener  for  rest.  When  the 
house  had  guests  for  the  evening  the  -long  room  was 
made  use  of,  and  of  all  the  house  to  this  room  alone 
visitors,  from  custom,  had  been  interdicted.  It  had 
become  a  sort  of  sanctum  which  few  invaded. 

Here  it  was  that  the  father,  seated  in  one  of  the 
wide  chairs,  the  girl  had  been  accustomed  to  recline  on 
a  stool  at  his  feet,  her  fair  head  often  resting  on  his 
knee  as  they  talked  together.  Here,  even  in  her  early 
childhood,  she  had  gained  an  insight  into  his  great, 
grand  nature,  and  here  her  own  character  had  been 
developed  and  her  mental  growth  largely  attained. 
Here,  day  after  day,  she  had  learned  broad  lessons  and 
caught  inspirations  for  good  deeds,  till  she  had  come 
to  a  respect  and  love  and  trust  in  him,  that  was  pure, 
absolute,  and  nndoubting;  till  she  knew  no  law  save 
that  he  indorsed,  and  she  had  no  wish  or  thought 
save  for  him. 

A  strange,  sweet,  almost  holy  spell  came  over  her 
during  these  evening  hours;  a  sweet  sense  of  content- 
ment and  happiness.  She  sat  there  in  his  presence 
and  listened  to  his  soothing  voice,  looked  np  into  his 
calm  face,  and  though  she  rarely  ever  attempted  to 
express  her  devotion,  his  very  hand  grew  sacred  to  her, 
and  she  knelt  before  it  as  at  a  shrine. 

As  the  women  came  out  from  the  study,  Doyt 
crossed  the  broad  hall  and  came  toward  them.  She 
had  her  hat  on,  and  in  her  hand  carried  a  bundle. 
Since  they  had  left  the  table  she  had  sat  stooped  over 
the  sewing-machine  making  thin  cotton  pads  and  a 
cover  for  a  feather  cushion.  They  were  intended  for 
Williams,  one  of  the  doctor's  patients,  who  had  been 
bedfast  for  some  weeks.  He  and  his  eighty-year-old 
mother  lived  in  a  cottage  down  the  road  beyond  the 
green  trees.  They  had  been  quite  wealthy  at  one 
time,  but  Williains  in  his  time  of  health  had  invested 
his  own  money  in  stocks  and  lost;  then  had  slowly 
gained  possession  of  his  mother's,  and  the  greater 
portion  of  her  small  wealth  had  also  mysteriously  dis- 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  3] 

appeared.  Naturally  active,  he  had  not  accepted  the 
lot  of  lying  in  bed  with  folded  hands  with  any  sort  of 
resigijation.  He  had  been  so  ill-natured  and  exacting 
since  his  sickness  that  he  had  alienated  everybody  from 
him;  that  is,  everybody  except  his  patient  old  mother. 

Xow,  it  had  appealed  strongly  to  Doyt's  sympathy 
that  Williams  should  be  dying  and  no  one  to  care. 
She  did  not  stop  to  reason  whether  he  or  someone  else 
was  to  blame  for  his  present  bereft  condition,  whether 
he  were  right  or  wrong,  worthy  or  unworthy;  it  was 
sufficient  that  he  was  sick  and  in  need. 

When  Dorcas  had  packed  a  basket  with  delicacies 
and  Doyt  had  gathered  a  bunch  of  half-open  rosebuds, 
the  carriage  and  horses  were  at  the  side  veranda,  and 
she  and  her  father  and  Uncle  John  were  soon  whirl- 
ing away. 


AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  yil. 

A  few  months  before  this,  and  when  scarce  seven 
years  old;  the  doctor  had  picked  up  Tim,  the  boy  of 
the  place,  on  the  streets  of  San  Francisco.  While 
waiting  for  the  transfer  line  at  the  corner  of  Market 
and  Powell  streets  he  had  noticed  him  with  others  sell- 
ing papers  there.  Tim,  then,  was  a  strange  little 
creature,  dark  and  thin;  his  whole  costume  was  unique; 
it  consisted  of  a  torn  brown  coat  and  a  pair  of  baggy 
knee  trousers  and  rough  shoes  of  over-size.  The  strap 
that  had  held  to  place  one  of  his  stockings  was  broken, 
and  the  loose  top  of  it  fell  over,  leaving  a  bare, 
weather-beaten  knee  exposed  to  view.  Under  his 
short  left  arm  he  held  a  loose  bunch  of  morning  papers. 
He  was  just  a  mite  of  humanity,  afloat  among  the 
larger  crafts;  but  there  was  an  air  of  independence  in 
his  manner  of  moving,  and  a  tendency,  too,  to  make 
the  most  of  a  hard  voyage  which  attracted  the  man's 
attention  toward  him.'  The  doctor,  after  completing 
the  commercial  transaction  of  buying  a  paper  from 
him,  fell  to  talking  with  the  small  salesman.  Learn- 
ing his  name,  and,  among  other  parts  of  Tim's  pathetic 
historv,  that  the  bov  was  fatherless  and  motherless,  he 
thought  to  test  him' by  asking:  ''Well,  Tim,  how  would 
vou  like  to  go  home  Vith  me  to  the  country,  when  I 
come  back  this  evening?"  The  boy  pushed  back  the 
lopped  brim  of  his  hat,  and  lifting  his  great,  dark 
eves,  he  looked  steadily  into  the  face  that  bent  over 
him.  That  face  was  full  of  thought,  power,  honesty, 
a  face  that  was  easilv  read  and  when  the  boy  had 
studied  it  but  a  moment,  his  thin  lips  became  twisted 
into  a  queer  sort  of  a  smile;  tucking  his  papers  closely 
under  his  short  arm  and  suddenly  thrusting  his  hands 
far  down  into  his  pockets,  he  said  timidly:  "Mister, 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  33 

3^011  may  bet  Fd  like  to  go."  As  his  new  friend  was 
about  to  step  npon  the  car  he  held  out  to  Tim  a  piece 
of  money.  "You  will  need  something  before  you 
leave,"  he  said,  "something  to  square  up  accounts  with, 
you  know."  "Xo,  I  can't  take  it/"'  Tim  answered  de- 
cidedly, "I  don't  need  it."  He  was  depending  upon 
the  three  dimes  which  he  had  put  away  in  his  shoe, 
and  his  eyes  instinctively  ran  along  down  his  ragged 
tronser  leg  toward  their  hiding  place.  Then,  as 
though  he  realized  that  he  had  in  his  enthusiasm  acted 
indiscretely,  he  glanced  furtively  at  the  boys  who  had 
gathered  around.  The  car  moved  off  and  the  man 
called  cheerily,  "Be  ready,  I'll  be  back  at  five,  be 
ready!"  All  the  boys  gathered  around  for  councfl  and 
Tim  Avas  for  a  time  the  center  of  attraction.  A  lanky, 
loose-limbed  newsboy,  pushing  up  to  the  front  said 
tauntingly:  "0,  go  on!  Ye  don't  think  you're  goin' 
anywliere,  do  yer?  The  man  wuz  only  Joshin'  yer, 
Yuh'll  never  see  him  again.  Greeny.  "V^Hiat'd  he  want 
yuh  for,  anyway?"  Another  looking  down  at  Tim 
from  his  perch  on  the  curbstone,  said  in  a  twangy 
voice:  "Yer  limb,  ye,  why  didn't  yuh  take  the  money?" 
Then,  as  though  suddenly  struck  by  the  remembrance, 
"You've  got  a  bank  in  your  shoe,  have  yuh  ?"  Step- 
ping down  menacingly,  he  said,  "Come  on,  boys,  let's 
rob  it."  A  small  street  urchin  with  a  crutch  went 
close  to  Tim's  side  and  laying  hold  of  the  bundle  of 
papers  under  his  arm,  said:  "Here,  give  up  your 
papers  if  yer  goin'  to  leave  the  old  stand."  Tim  held 
firmly  to  his  pack.  He  walked  away  a  few  steps  and 
called  out  indifferently:  "Here's  yer  mornin'  papers — 
^Call,'  ^Chronicle,'  ^Examiner'  ";  and  all  the  morning 
went  on  with  his  work  just  as  if  no  gentleman  had 
stopped  to  talk  with  him,  and  as  if  no  boy  in  the 
vicinity  had  made  any  comment  on  it;  as  if  no  thought 
of  any  change  in  his  fortune  had  ever  been  proposed. 
Through  the  morning,  as  far  as  he  could,  he  kept  clear 
of  the  other  newsboys,  and  his  active  mind  was  given 
to  much  thinking.  When  all  his  papers  were  gone  he 
3 


34  ^S  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

stopped  and  tip-toed  to  get  a  look  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  at  the  cigar-stand  near  the  corner.  He  saw  re- 
flected there  the  thin,  soiled  face  with  its  big  black 
eyes,  the  small,  poorly  nourished  body,  the  old  lopped- 
brimmed  hat,  and  odd  misfit  suit,  and  the  run-down, 
ragged  shoes.  He  instinctively  tried  to  clear  up  his 
face  with  his  coat  sleeve,  then  he  reached  down  and 
made  an  effort  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of  his  pants, 
and  to  bring  about  a  union  between  them  and  his  torn 
hose  tops.  With  all  his  efforts  at  improvement  the  pic- 
ture in  the  glass  remained  much  the  same.  "The 
fellers  are  right,"  straightening  up  to  get  the  full 
effect.  ''Just  open  your  eyes  and  look  at  yourself, 
Tim,"  he  said  reprovingly,  ''an'  ye  think  yerself  of 
such  importance  that  he's  goin'  to  come  back  after  ye 
sometime  this  evenin.'  "  Looking  full  into  the  eyes  in 
the  glass,  he  said  contemptuously:  "Yer  a  goose;  go 
and  build  yerself  up  on  it  and  go  round  here  all  the 
forenoon  thinkin'  that  he's  comin'  when  yer  kno's  well 
as  yer  know  anything  that  such  a  fine  man  as  he's  got 
no  use  fer  the  likes  of  ye."  He  held  himself  aloof 
from  the  other  boys,  and  at  noontime  he  took  some 
cakes  that  he  had  bought  for  a  lunch  and  crawled  into 
a  secluded  doorway  to  eat  them.  After  he  had  seated 
himself  he  reached  down  into  the  side  of  his  shoe  and 
fingering  about  a  while  pulled  out  a  dime.  •  He  held 
it  on  his  thumb  nail  and  braced  his  forefinger  against 
it.  "Heads,  I  go,  tails,  I  stay,"  and  after  a  minute's 
pause,  "I'll  bet  it'll  be  tails ;  it'll  be  my  luck,"  he  said, 
solemnly. 

He  flopped  the  dime  up;  it  came  down  on  the  boards 
and  rolled  along  on  its  edge,  halted  an  instant  in  the 
corner  in  an  undecided  way,  then  fell  and  lay  still. 
The  boy  jumped  forward,  picked  up  the  money  and 
shouted,  "Heads,  bv  Jimmy!  That  means  yer  goin', 
Tim." 

Before  the  appointed  time  in  the  evening  he  was 
back  on  the  corner  again.  His  blonde  locks  were  drip- 
ping and  freshly  parted  and  his  bright  eyes  lit  up  a 
spare  face  newly  scrubbed. 


A   kiTORY  OF   VALIFOUNIA  LIFE.  35 

One  of  his  comrades  in  trade  ran  up  to  him, 
"George!''  he  yelled  out,  "but  I  took  the  chap  for  an 
undertaker."  The  signal  stopped  the  sale  of  the  "first 
edition"  of  the  evening  newspapers  and  there  was  a 
flurry  among  the  boys.  There  was  a  roar  of  laughter 
when  the  loose-jointed  chap  yelled  out:  "What  in  hell 
would  the  gentleman  want  with  ye?"  His  small  tor- 
mentor did  not  know  that  in  spite  of  Tim's  sanguine 
manner  and  confident  appearance  at  present,  that  what 
the  boys  just  said,  was  what  he  had  been  saying  to  him- 
self all  the  afternoon. 

The  roar  of  traffic  went  on,  the  jangle  of  the  bells, 
the  hum  of  the  trolley  and  the  tramp  of  busy  feet  on 
the  pavement,  and  while  the  boys  were  talking  to- 
gether, the  doctor  alighted  from  a  car  and  came  toward 
them.  He  did  not  at  first  recognize  his  protege  of  the 
morning,  but  Tim  hurried  quickly  to  him  and  made 
haste  to  signify  his  readiness  to  go.  He  said  exuber- 
antly, face  flushed  and  eyes  flashing  and  taking  on  a 
new  light,  "I  knowed  ye'd  come."  The  little  fellow  had 
been  used  to  slreet  life;  from  his  babyhood  even  he  had 
been  tricked  and  cheated,  but  ever  since  he  had  looked 
into  the  man's  eyes  in  the  morning,  impossible  as  such 
happiness  seemed,  he  had  implicitly  believed  the  words 
he  had  said.  During  his  whole  life  he  had  met  with 
very  few  strokes  of  good  luck.  Several  times  through 
the  day  he  had  asked  himself  if  he  had  not  been  dream- 
ing, but  when  he  thought  of  the  man,  he  laid  aside  his 
forebodings;  it  was  enough  that  such  a  man  had  said 
he  would  come. 

Bobby  Mason,  a  stout  built  little  newspaper  vender 
about  one  inch  less  in  stature  than  Tim,  stood  a  little 
distance  away  and  looked  on  intently.  His  black  ring- 
lets peeped  from  under  his  limp  hat  and  lay  close  to 
his  dark  brow.  There  was  an  undercurrent  of  loyalty 
in  Bobby's  nature.  To  him  this  was  a  momentous 
time,  and  when  he  saw  that  the  gentleman  had  re- 
turned, saw  Tim's  bundle  and  his  clean- washed  face, 
and  knew  that  he  was  really  going  away  lie  felt  that 


3€  ^'S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

a  phase  of  his  life  was  closing.     He  and  Tini' — the  two 
mites — had  stood  the  hard  knocks  of  life  together  un- 
complainingdy ;  they  had  worked  and  slept  and  starved 
together,  and  it  had  never  till  now  occurred  to  Bobby 
that  the  time  would  ever  come  when  he  would  be  left 
to  meet  life's  buffets,  bereft  of  Tim's  support.     He 
leaned  against  a  hitching  post  and  gave  way  to  his 
feelings,  and  another  newsvender  discovering  his  con- 
dition called  out:  ^'Hello!  Bobby  here's  all  broke  up," 
and  so  Bobby  was.     He  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  boy, 
but  gathering  up  the  diminutive  remains  of  himself, 
he  pushed  nearer  and  looking  straight  into  Tim's  face, 
while    huge  tears    were  dropping    from  his  own,  said 
timidly:  ^'Where's  yer  goin',  Timmy?"     Tim  pondered 
a  moment.     He  wasn't  able  to  answer,  but  he  handed 
his  bundle  to  one  of  the  other  boys,  and  putting  one 
short  arm  close  around  Bobby's  neck  he  made  strong 
gestures  with  the  other  hand  and  said  in  low,  soothing 
tones:  "I  guess  I'm    goin';   but   don't  you    mind  it, 
Bobby,  'cause  I'll  come  back;  I'll  come  back  sometime 
to  see  you."     Harrowing  grief  seemed  to  seize  Bobby 
afresh.     Tim  stood  patting  him  gently,  the  two  pair  of 
eyes    about  on  a  level,  then    suddenly    left    him  and 
rushed  over  to  a  fruit-stand  a  few  steps  away,  and  pay- 
ing a  nickel  he  hurried  back  with  his  hands  full  and 
thrust  his  purchase  under  his  little  friend's  nose,  say- 
ing in  a  soft  tone  of  voice,  "Here,  Bobby,  yer  always 
liked    apples."     The    little  mourner's    grief    was    too 
deep  to  accept  the  offered  consolation,  and  Tim  had  to 
force  his  purchase  into  Bobby's  unwilling  hands  and 
pockets.     Car  after  car  passed  westward  and  the  doctor 
still  waited  looking  on  Tim's  parting  with  his  friend, 
interestedly.     Bobby  was  not  so  fortunate  as  Tim,  in 
that  he  had  a  weakly  mother  and  a  drunken  father. 
It  was  owing  to  these  encumbrances  that  the  boys  were 
separated  and  that  he  w^as  left  behind,  a  little  solitary 
soul,  to  combat  the  evils  of  life,  instead  of  going  where 
his  inclinations  led  and  making  one  of  the  happy  party 
to  the  country  that  day. 


A   STORT  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  37 


CHAPTEE  YIII. 

After  Tim  had  been  at  Oaklawii  for  a  while,  the 
doctor  said  one  morning  to  his  sister:  "We've  got  to 
give  the  bo}^  some  responsibility  if  we  want  him  to 
amount  to  anything.  Dorcas/^  he  said,  looking  at  her 
in  a  mischievous  way,  "He's  too  young  to  work  about 
the  horses;  suppose  you  abdicate  and  give  over  to  Tim 
the  care  of  the  poultry  yard."  The  doctor  spoke  as 
though  he  knew  by  instinct  that  Dorcas  would  resent 
any  such  intrusion  on  her  rights.  Dorcas  stood  for  a 
moment  gravely  considering  the  question;  then  she 
turned  smiling  at  her  brother  and  said,  "You  are  not 
really  serious  about  it,  are  you?"  The  brother  an- 
swered, musingly,  'T  am  not  perfectly  sure.  The  idea 
has  come  to  me.  I've  no  right  to  interfere  with  your 
domain,  but  I'd  like  to  discuss  the  question  with  you 
if  you  are  willing.  I'd  like  to  tr}'  the  boy.  I'd  like 
to  see  what  he  can  do."  "But  he's  a  little  fellow," 
Dorcas  interrupted.  "Yes,  I  know;  there'll  be  more 
than  he  can  manage  at  first,  but  you  see  if  you  would 
take  the  trouble  to  initiate  him  into  the  business,  I  am 
sure  it  would  please  the  little  fellow,  and  though  the 
profit  might  not  be  so  great  as  under  your  own  man- 
agement, the  attempt  would  be  for  the  boy's  good  and 
that  would  be  worth  more.  You  can  oversee  and  ad- 
vise and  if  Tim  shows  good  business  tact,  you  can  grad- 
ually relinquish  all  claim."  Whatever  was  in  Dorcas' 
mind  she  said  nothing  discouraging,  and  having 
thought  the  matter  over  the  next  day  she  fully  ac- 
quiesced in  the  plan.  The  experiment  was  tried.  Tim 
took  hold  of  the  matter  with  infinite  bustle  and  im- 
portance, impatient  to  discharge  all  the  duties  of  his 
new  position.  His  demure  little  face  became  lighted 
up  with  a  new  life.     The  newness  of  the  work  had  its 


38  -4*Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

attraction;  tlien,  too,  there  was  a  charming  activity 
and  stir  about  it,  for  the  poultry  lot  had  a  swarming 
population,  and  the  whole  place  was  alert  with  life. 
The  hoy  began  to  study  Avith  delight  the  nature  of  the 
feathered  tribe  about  him.  He  received  Dorcas'  in- 
structions with  solemnity  and  puckered  up  his  brows 
in  thought  when  trying  to  comprehend  the  intricacies 
of  the  business.  At  her  bidding  he  hammered  and 
sawed  and  hoed  and  dug.  During  these  times  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  he  w^as  a  happy  morsel  of  humanity. 
He  had  stepped  so  suddenly  into  wider  opportunities. 
He  w^as  pleased  with  the  value  the  doctor  had  set  upon 
him  and  most  of  all  felt  the  honor  of  being  trusted. 
Childhood  does  not  remember  its  sorrows  and  wrongs, 
and  lacks  and  hardships,  and  now  Tim's  heart  was  just 
as  light  as  though  he  had  never  seen  the  time  that 
night  after  night  he  had  crawled  into  a  drygoods  box 
as  his  only  shelter. 

Long  before  this  Tim  had  noticed  tliat  his  language 
was  different  from  that  used  at  Oaklawn,  and  had  made 
a  gallant  attempt 'to  modify  it,  and  now  interwoven 
with  his  street  idioms  some  high  sounding  words  from 
the  doctor's  vocabulary  became  gradually  mixed. 

One  morning  as  the  doctor  came  into  the  yard  pre- 
paratorv'  to  driving  away,  Dorcas  called  him  to  come 
and  see  Tim's  method  of  feeding  the  poultry.  There 
was  a  gap  in  the  hedge  wdiich  separated  the  lot  from 
the  dooryard,  and  the  opening  commanded  a  view  of 
nearly  its  whole  space.  It  was  at  this  opening  that 
the  two  stationed  themselves.  On  the  opposite  side 
of  the  yard  from  where  they  stood  was  a  tall  white 
fence  and  for  the  protection  of  the  fowl  there  was  a 
long,  low  building,  with  jutting  angles  and  a  square 
window  and  a  wide,  open  door:  and  a  great  walnut  tree 
spread  its  branches  above  it. 

The  whole  colony  of  feathered  inhabitants  was  out  in 
the  glowing  sunshine.  Ducks  with  golden  bills  went 
sturdily  plodding  along  all  in  a  line.  There  were 
Houdans    in  their    splendid    plumage,  and  big,  bulky 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  39 

Cochins  moved  lazily  about.  Clumsy  gray  geese  car- 
ried their  heads  loftily  and  white  leghorns  with  combs 
ruffled  and  plaited,  and  bantams  with  gorgeous  tails 
and  red-necked  and  gaunt-legged  turkeys  stalking 
about  the  yard.  There  were  coops  of  rustic  make  scat- 
tered here  and  there  to  which  hens  were  tethered  wdth 
their  broods  about  them. 

Suddenly  the  lethargy  of  the  place  was  broken. 
Tim,  face  and  eyes  a-sparkle,  came  through  the  gate 
with  a  great  pan  of  feed,  while  the  hungry  multitude 
with  an  impulse  closed  about  him.  With  most  exas- 
perating deliberation  he  tiptoed  and  stretching  his 
arms  set  the  pan  on  a  high  box.  As  the  expectant 
group  watched  him  a  premature  gravity  came  over  his 
boyish  face;  he  puckered  up  his  brows  and  seemed  to 
gather  slowly  his  mental  forces  to  meet  the  occasion. 
He  mounted  a  coop,  he  bowed  gracefully  and  waved  his 
hands  to  the  audience  in  imitation,  evidently,  of  some 
city  speaker.  He  said  politely:  ''Xow,  gentlemen,  will 
you  have  the  extreme  kindness  to  step  back?"  It 
was  a  straightforward  appeal,  and  a  few  of  his  hearers 
turned  up  their  bead-like  eyes  and  surveyed  him  de- 
ferentially, but  the  majority  pushed  forward  with  pal- 
pitating eagerness,  and  human-like  scrambled  for  place. 
He  looked  into  the  countenances  of  some  half-grown 
females  who  were  even  clambering  up  the  rostrum 
where  the  speaker  stood,  and  said  chivalrously, 
"Ladies,  it  really  will  not  do  to  crowd  so."  This 
speech  also  had  little  effect  and  directly  he  dropped 
his  oratorical  style  and  between  shut  teeth  he  called 
out:  "Mother  of  Moses!  Til  see  whether  you'ns  don't 
move  or  not."  He  came  down  off  his  platform,  waded 
resolutely  through  the  moving  mass  over  toward  the 
box;  with  an  adroit  movement  he  caught  up  an  old 
broom  that  was  standing  there.  The  two  could  see 
that  he  had  prepared  for  the  emergency.  With  short 
strings  to  the  lower  end  of  the  broom  he  had  attached 
tin  cans  and  before  he  was  astride  of  the  stick  and 
ready  to  move,  the  fowls,,  warned  by  some  previous  ex- 


40  ^8  GOD  MADE  HER. 

I^erience,  began  to  scatter.  Tim's  feet  and  legs  were 
like  a  set  of  springs  and  he  toolv  a  flying  circle  about 
the  yard  as  though  struck  with  a  sudden  insane  frenzy. 
He  made  a  reckless  and  lavish  expenditure  of  muscle 
and  swept  on  with  hot  intenbity,  and  the  light  sand 
of  the  yard  scattered  as  the  flying  cans  stiiick  it.  The 
poultry,  big  and  little,  aristocratic  and  plebian,  flew  for 
cover  the  tiny  fledglings  along  with  the  veterans. 
There  was  loud  squawking  from  the  belated  ones  and 
Dorcas  laid  her  hand  heavily  on  her  brother's  arm  and 
said  with  breathless  perturbation:  ^'He'll  have  them  all 
killed  I*'  Eound  and  round  Tim  chased,  rearing  and 
kicking  as  he  tore  on.  Bantams  in  their  haste  re- 
frained from  strutting,  Cochins  forgot  their  clumsi- 
ness. Some  of  the  retreating  fowl  splashed  through 
the  drinking  dishes,  and  even  the  Poland  gander 
dropped  his  pomposity,  and  took  to  the  shed  along 
with  the  rest.  The  old  white  rooster  that  did  most  of 
the  fighting,  and  was  consequently  named  "The 
Patriot,"  scud  away  at  Tim's  onslaught,  and  lay 
crouched  in  the  shadow  of  the  fence. 

When  the  boy  saw  that  he  had  the  place  all  cleared 
he  brought  the  pan  of  meal  and  proceeded  wdth  the 
distribution  of  rations,  measuring  it  out  very  evenly 
and  justly.  The  majority  of  the  flock  held  to  the  cor- 
ners and  surveyed  the  proceedings  deferentially.  If  re- 
treating birds  came  forth  again  in  any  numbers  Tim 
dropped  the  pan  and  mounted  the  stick  again  and 
made  another  circuit.  One  brown  leghorn,  with  great 
coolness  of  manner,  crept  out  of  the  crevice  where  she 
had  been  hidden  and  took  several  long  and  deliberate 
steps  toward  the  corn,  and  then  she  became  frightened 
at  her  own  temerity,  turned  and  blundering  and 
sprawling  and  squalling  and  squawking  made  her  way 
back  to  safety.  When  the  bo^y  had  the  feast  arranged 
according  to  his  notion  he  rattled  his  knuckles  fiercely 
on  the  bottom  of  the  empty  pan  and  called,  "Chook! 
chook!"  with  such  vehemence  tJiat  the  whole  army  re- 
turned with  alacrity  and  with  seemingly  no  loss  of 
appetite  from  the  scare. 


.4    ,ST()RY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  41 

Turning  to  Dorcas  the  doctor  said  in  a  gratified 
way:  "The  scene  is  over  and  no  fatalities.  The  poul- 
try will  know  how  to  take  care  of  itself  after  this. 
You  see  the  clitmsiest  of  the  birds  showed  a  marvelous 
talent  in  getting  out  of  the  way.  You're  surely  not 
going  to  find  fault  with  that  kind  of  management,  are 
you?  It  shows  that  the  boy's  mind  is  fertile  in  expe- 
dients. He  shows  aptitude  for  business.  I  think  he 
handled  the  hungry  pushing  crowd  in  an  admirable 
way.  What  he  lacked  in  strength,  you  see,  he  made  up 
in  activity  and  decision.  He  is  perfectly  satisfied  with 
his  present  assignment.  Let  him  work  Dorcas.  You 
will  take  away  the  relish  for  it  if  you  interfere,"  he 
said  as  they  walked  toward  the  house  together. 


42  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Among  the  fowls  that  came  under  Tim's  care  was 
a  young,  gray  Hen.  Her  waving  tail  shading  off  beau- 
tifully into  an  azure  tint  gave  to  her  a  more  impressive 
individuality  than  was  common  among  hens.  Tim  had 
named  her  "Blue  Juniata."  In  the  course  of  time  the 
gray  hen  began  to  ruffle  herself  up  and  to  bustle  about 
in  a  way  that  looked  very  foolish  to  Tim,  who,  it 
seems,  had  expected  of  her  some  sort  of  decorum. 
Tim  went  to  Aunt  Dorcas  about  it.  "There's  some- 
thmg  the  matter  with  Blue  Juniata,"  he  said  excitedly. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  thinking  more  of  his  subject  matter 
than  of  the  diction,  "this  last  day  or  two  she's  gone  to 
acting  darned  queer."  Notwithstanding  the  strongest 
child  effort,  his  street  education  occasionally  got  con- 
trol. "Yes,"  he  went  on  in  his  excitement,  not  notic- 
ing that  he  had  infringed  upon  rhetorical  rules,  "her 
feathers  all  stick  out  spiky  ways,  and,"  he  extended  his 
little  browned  hands  in  way  of  explanation,  "she's 
snappy  and  bad  tempered  and  she  looks  seedy.  Aunt 
Dorcas  "  he  added  confidingly,  "she  acts  like  she'd  got 
a  jag  on."  The  spirit  of  the  thing  seemed  to  be  in  the 
air,  for  soon  other  hens  became  afflicted  with  the  same 
unbecoming  manner  and  life  appeared  to  hang  heavily 
on  them  till,  under  Aunt  Dorcas'  direction,  and  after 
infinite  trouble,  and  with  great  flutter  and  flurry,  Tim 
got  each  one  of  the  fussy,  bustling  creatures  fltted  out 
with  a  nice  box  of  straw  and  a  setting  of  eggs.  Then 
to  Tim's  great  surprise  the  discontent  was  suddenly 
over.  The  boy's  curiosity  was  unlimited  and  it  was  as 
though  he  had  been  transplanted  to  another  planet. 
Everything  here  was  so  deliciously  new.  Asking  from 
Aunt  Dorcas  a  hundred  explanations,  with  gravity  in 
his  eyes,  he  looked    on.     He    noted  the    happy  confi- 


A    SlTORY  OF  CALIFORNIA    LIFE.  43 

denee  with  which  the  restless  hens  took  to  their  nests. 
He  observed  the  buo3^ant  complacency  and  deathless 
zeal  with  which  they  held  to  them,  the  sincerity  with 
which  they  waited,  overlooking  the  cramping  pains 
and  bravely  ignoring  the  leg-weariness.  He  beheld 
the  bravery  with  which  they  combated  every  danger. 
He  saw  a  breathing  thing  which  had  capacity  for  ac- 
tion and  when  every  nerve  fibre  was  tingling  with  life, 
of  its  own  will,  give  up  comfort,  joy,  freedom.  He 
watched  them  sit  in  their  devotion,  and  thirst  and 
starve.  These  things  were  so  novel  to  the  boy  that  he 
could  not  overlook  the  wonder  of  it.  He  had  not  yet 
come  into  possession  of  the  contonpt  we  hold  for 
mysteries,  begotten  only  by  our  familiarity  with  them. 
During  all  this  time  while  Tim  took  note  of  the  pro- 
ceedings Blue  Juniata  sat  abstractedly  on  her  nest 
w^inking  and  blinking  as  though  she  were  doing  the 
thing  of  most  vital  importance  in  the  world.  Tim  got 
all  the  information  he  could  gain  by  questioning  Aunt 
Dorcas  and  then  studied  about  it  and  could  not  in  any 
way  comprehend  the  wonder  of  it.  That  these  eggs 
w^ere  going  to  be  made  alive  and  that  a  chicken  could 
come  out  of  each  egg;  to  l)e  able  to  move  about  and 
have  eyes  and  feet  and  feathers.  The  more  he  learned 
about  it,  the  more  the  mystery  grew.  "When  would 
the  chicken  be  made?''  he  asked,  and  how  did  she  know 
they  would  be  made  then.  Had  she  ever  seen  them 
made,  and  how  were  they  going  to  get  out?  Aunt 
Dorcas  told  him,  because  they  always  were  hatched  in 
twenty-one  days;  that  the  eggs  when  they  w^ere  kept 
at  an  even  temperature  always  turned  to  chickens  in 
three  weeks.  Then  Tim  said,  "And  what  makes  'em 
turn  to  chickens  in  three  weeks?"  Aunt  Dorcas  an- 
swered him,  "God  does  it."  Then  and  there  Tim  had 
established  a  theology  hypothetically.  "If  this  thing 
happened  just  as  Aunt  Dorcas  had  said  it  would,  then 
there  must  be  a  God.  Along  with  his  conception  of  a 
God  he  got  also  an  idea  of  one  of  his  attributes  and 
that  was  His  accuracy,  for  Dorcas  had  said  that  the 
chickens  were  always  made  in  just  three  wrecks. 


44  ^4*S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

Tim  went  often  and  stood  over  Blue  Jimiata,  and 
on  his  little  brown  fingers  he  counted  the  days  and  was 
observant  still  till  at  last  he  knew  that  the  endless 
time  of  waiting  was  over.  On  the  important  day  Dor- 
cas and  himself,  eager  with  expectation,  went  together 
and  carefully  lifted  up  the  hen  and  there  were  three 
live  chickens,  soft,  cunning,  creamy,  yellow  things  all 
complete,  as  Tim  could  see.  Exploring  farther,  in  one 
of  the  remaining  eggs  they  found  a  chicken's  bill  just 
coming  through  the  opening  shell  and  Aunt  Dorcas 
picked  up  another  egg,  the  covering  of  wiiich  was  yet 
unbroken,  but  putting  it  to  Tim's  ear  he  could  hear 
the  little  energetic,  imprisoned  thing  peeping  inside. 
From  that  moment,  the  child  mind  dismissed  all  uncer- 
tainties. Here  was  a  sure  revelation.  When  Dorcas 
and  he  had  placed  the  eggs  under  tne  hens  and  ar- 
ranged things  just  as  it  was  designed  they  should  be 
arranged,  and  while  he  had  been  on  the  watch,  while 
he  had  heeded  what  was  doing,  God  had  created.  The 
empty  shells  were  there  as  evidence — the  live  chickens 
before  him.  Here  was  a  truth  plain,  placid,  reposeful, 
about  which  there  could  be  no  misinterpretation  or 
doubt  upon  which  to  build  an  argument. 

As  Tim's  active  intelligence  drank  in  all  these  facts, 
a  faith  entered  his  soul  that  could  never  be  shaken. 
He  had  emerged  from  the  puzzling  darkness  and  the 
uncertain  mists  into  the  clear  light  of  day. 

There  was  a  Ood;  a  skillful,  wonderful,  powerful 
God.  It  had  been  proven  to  him  by  a  miracle.  A  con- 
sistent God,  not  changeable  and  erratic  and  irregular, 
but  a  Being  who  did  things  with  accuracy  and  exact- 
ness; a  God  whom,  in  his  child  heart,  it  w^as  a  sweet 
joy  to  know;  a  God  on  whom  he  could  unreservedly  de- 
pend. 


A   ^TORY   OF   CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  45 


CHAPTEE  X. 

The  incubative  period  being  over.  Bine  Juniata 
came  off  the  nest  at  Last,  with  only  nine  chicks,  and 
Avhen  he  and  Dorcas  were  transferring  the  little  fluffy 
family  to  the  coop,  which  the  two  together  had  con- 
structed, the  occasion  was  one  of  the  keenest  enjoy- 
ment to  Tim. 

The  doctor  took  an  interest  in  the  affair  too  and 
went  out"  with  the  boy  to  look  at  the  brood.  As  he 
turned  to  go  back  into  the  house,  he  said:  "Kow,  Tim, 
this  brood  is  going  to  require  a  good  deal  of  attention. 
I  want  you  not  only  to  feed,  but  to  watch  over  and 
protect  these  chickens.  1  want  to  see  if  you  can't  raise 
every  one." 

Other  hens  were  hatching  at  al)out  the  same  time  and 
looking  to  the  profit  of  the  affair,  as  Dorcas  explained 
to  Tim,  she  had  taken  the  brood  belonging  to  another 
hen  and  given  it  to  Juniata. 

The  next  day  Tim  reasoning  along  the  same  line  and 
acting  from  example,  went  on  and  made  a  collection, 
and  kept  giving  Juniata  additional  care,  till  she  had 
nearly  thirty  younglings  and  she  seemed  to  extend  her 
affection  as  well  as  her  wings  to  suit  the  demand  made 
upon  her,  and  tried  to  cover  them  all. 

Tim  sat  down  in  the  sand  and  watched  the  tiny 
things  just  beginning  life.  He  studied  their  beady 
eyes  and  laughed  to  see  them  totter  about  on  their 
wobbly  legs  and  jostle  each  other;  he  saw  them,  in- 
spired with  a  sudden  touch  of  hunger,  pick  at  each 
other's  pink  feet.  After  awhile,  everything  working 
satisfactorily,  he  ran  into  the  house  to  tell  Aunt  Dor- 
cas about  it.  Excitedly  he  said,  and  with  an  air  of 
great  gratification,  "IVe  got  great  news  for  you.  Aunt 
Dorcas.     Yes,  I've  found  a  whole  lot  more  chickens. 


46  AS  GOD  MADLJ  HER. 

Yes,"  he  said  exultantly,  "they're  all  made  and  fin- 
ished; all  dry  and  fuzzy,"  and  he  brought  his  two  hands 
together  in  a  curve  to  show  her.  "Yes,"  and  the  better 
to  hold  her  attention,  he  crawled  up  and  put  his  knees 
on  tile  wooden  chair  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  where  Aunt  Dorcas  was  mixing  dough,  "Yes," 
with  great  satisfaction,  he  went  on,  "and  I  brought 
'em  all  and  give  ^em  to  Juniata." 

Dorcas  let  the  dough  rest  on  the  board  and  looking 
into  Tim's  face,  she  said  eagerly:  "Why,  Tim,  and 
you're  sure  she  took  kindly  to  them,  are  you?  Why 
child,  she  can't  cover  so  many."  "0,  yes,  she  did," 
and  he  stretched  out  his  short  arms  to  show  her, 
"Aunt  Dorcas,  she  just  spread  herself  out  into  an  or- 
phan asylum  and  took  'em  all  in. 

"Tim,"  Dorcas  said  excitedly,  "you  should  not  have 
done  this.  You  go  right  back  and  watch  her  till 
I  come  out."  Tim  went  back  and  when  he  reached 
the  coop  again  a  depressing  scene  met  his  gaze.  Two 
of  the  tender  yellow  things  lay  limp  and  dead,  and 
on  his  arrival  the  motherly  Juniata  was  industriously 
applying  her  beak  to  the  task  of  scalping  another. 
Two  already  dead;  and  the  doctor  had  told  him  he 
must  raise  them  all.  Eancor  was  slowly  kindling  with- 
in him;  to  leave  such  a  wrong  unresenfed  was  not  in 
Tim's  nature.  He  went  off  a  few  steps  and  picked 
up  a  brick  and  in  an  instant  the  missile  moved  toward 
the  offender  at  fatal  speed.  Tim's  aim  was  unswerv- 
ing and  before  Dorcas  had  reached  the  hen  lot  Blue 
Juniata  lay  stretched  out  by  the  side  of  the  dead 
chickens.  Tim's  indignation  did  not  end  at  once. 
All  shaking  with  excitement,  he  explained  the  situa- 
tion to  Dorcas.  "When  I  got  out  here,  Aunt  Dorcas, 
just  look  there,  she  had  the  little  fellows  killed,  and 
she  was  just  trying  to  pick  the  head  off  that  one  that's 
cheepin'  over  there  now."  He  drew  himself  up.  "I 
just  shied  a  brick  at  her  old  pate,  I  did,"  he  said  with 
pride,  "and  I  wiiz  just  standin'  ready  to  tip  a  tin  can 
after  the  brick,  but.  Aunt  Dorcas,  she  didn't  touch  the 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  47 

chickens  any  more;  she  just  wobbled  off  and  then  laid 
still."  Tim  went  on  indignantly,  "She  didn't  have  a 
sliver  of  trouble  with  the  chickens,  Aunt  Dorcas;  she 
had  good  ^pickens^;  I  fed  her  all  she  could  eat  and  I 
brung  her  water;  she  didn't  have  a  sliver  of  work  to 
do.  What  right  had  Juniata,  Fd  like  to  know,"  he 
continued  with  grieving  fervor  and  resentment,  "to  go 
and  skin  the  heads  off'  of  'em  like  that  and  kill  'em 
just  after  God  had  got  'em  made?" 

He  looked  up  in  Dorcas'  face  now  dumb  with  amaze- 
ment, and  it  began  to  dawn  on  him  that  perhaps  Dor- 
cas did  not  quite  endorse  his  action.  He  said  slowly 
and  in  a  soft  tone;  "I  just  wasn't  going  to  stand  it." 

By  this  time  the  whole  litter  of  chickens  was  chirp- 
ing piteously.  "But,  Oh,  Tim,  just  to  think,"  Dorcas 
said  regretfully,  "you  only  made  matters  worse.  Ju- 
niata is  dead,"  she  said,  as  she  lifted  her  up  by  one  leg. 
"Juniata  dead!  What  will  the  chickens  do  now  with 
no  mother  to  cover  them.  There  were  only  two  dead. 
Perhaps  they  will  all  die  now."  It  was  plain  to  Tim 
now  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  In  a  moment  he 
realized  what  he  had  done  and  knew  that  he  had  bet- 
ter have  repressed  his  indignation.  He  looked  at  1:he 
dead  hen,  and  then  at  the  destitute  orphans,  and  then 
turned  his  brown  eyes  directly  to  Dorcas'  face.  Mak- 
ing an  effort  to  adjust  his  facial  muscles,  "I  didn't 
think  she  was  dead.  I  didn't  know  I'd  killed  her." 
He  said  slowly,  hanging  down  his  head,  "I've  gone  and 
made  a  mess  of  it,  haven't  I?  Aint'  I  a  chuckle-head? 
And  he  trusted  me,"  he  said  penitently,  "and  you,  too. 
Aunt  Dorcas,  and  I  wasn't  worth  shucks!"  He  walked 
over  to  Dorcas'  side,  crestfallen  and  heartsick.  The 
lifeless  Juniata,  the  melancholy  cheep  of  the  orphaned 
chickens,  make  the  occasion  impressive.  "What'll  the 
doctor  say?"  The  great  tears  filled  his  eyes  and  hid- 
ing his  face  in  Dorcas' ^pron,  he  sobbed  out  plaintively: 
"To-night's  the  first  time  since  I've  been  here  that  I've 
wished  I  hadn't  come." 


48  ^^  OOD  MADE  tlt^R. 

He  had  tried  to  do  his  work  thoroughly,  and  here 
right  at  the  threshhold  of  the  undertaking  it  had  all 
gone  wrong. 

When  Aunt  Khoda  heard  about  the  affair,  she  said: 
"I  don^t  see  how  you  countenance  such  depra^dty.  I"d 
whip  him/^ 

When  the  doctor  returned  home  in  the  evening  he 
had  only  words,  of  consolation  to  offer.  He  said:  ^'The 
best  and  the  wisest  make  mistakes.  Look  here,  my 
boy,  you  couldn^t  be  expected  to  do  everything  just 
right  at  the  start.  You  couldn't  know  all  about  the 
poultry  business  in  the  beginning.  People,  Tim,  who 
have  devoted  their  lives  to  the  investigation  of  hen 
nature,  haven't  understood  it." 

The  dispirited  look  did  not  at  once  leave  the  boy's 
face,  and  the  doctor  said  soothingly:  "Eeal  nice  plan 
that  was  you  had  Tim;  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  was 
it  did  not  work  out  right."  He  patted  the  boy  kindly 
and  said,  "Don't  think  any  more  about  it.  She  has 
given  yon  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  but  now  that  Blue 
Juniata  is  dead  and  passed  off  the  stage  of  action,  I'd 
just  dismiss  her  troublesome  memory.  A  most  unjus- 
tifiable way  of  doing  to  lay  over  and  die  on  so  slight 
a  provocation;  looks  strangely  like  malicious  intent  on 
her  part." 

In  the  meantime,  evening  having  come  on,  the  deso- 
late chickens  had  crawled  in  amongst  a  brood  of  half- 
grown  ducks  and  had  found  a  downy  hiding  place,  the 
ducks  having  perforce  taken  the  motherless  things  to 
their  soft  bosoms,  and  nntil  the  chicks  had  grown  large 
and  strong  enough  to  fly  np  on  the  roost  in  the  hen- 
house, they  remained  comfortably  under  duck  protec- 
tion. 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  49 


CHAPTER  XI. 

For  some  time  Dr.  Ilarding  had  been  so  occupied 
that  each  morning  he  had  left  the  house  early.  One 
day,  however,  was  an  exception,  and  never  had  the 
beguiling  beauty,  the  kindly  homeliness  of  the  precious 
peace  of  the  place  been  more  distinct  and  impressive 
than  on  this  pleasant  Sunday  morning. 

Ehoda  was  even  stiffer  and  primmer  than  was  her 
wont,  as  after  the  breakfast  had  been  cleared  away 
she  sat  at  one  of  the  Ioav  windows,  her  Bible  lying  in 
her  lap.  She  looked  away  from  the  book  now  and 
then,  and  stooping  smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  black 
silk  dress.  The  air  which  came  in  at  the  open  door, 
was  ladened  with  the  odor  of  the  climl)ing  roses  and 
heliotrope,  which  grew  in  tropical  abundance  just  out- 
side. 

Down  on  the  road  children  dressed  in  gay  colors 
went  skipping  along  in  the  soft  shade  of  the  trees. 
On  the  morning  stillness  fell  the  high  jingling  notes 
of  the  church  bells  near,  strangely  mingled  with  the 
rich,  musical  tones  of  a  chime  of  bells  which  came 
dreamily  to  the  ear,  from  a  steeple  over  the  blue 
shadow  of  the  mountain. 

After  a  little  time  Rhoda  laid  down  her  Bible.  It 
was  plain  that  she  was  not  at  ease;  that  the  peace  of 
the  beautiful  morning  had  not  entered  into  her  soul. 
She  could  see  that  her  brother-in-law  was  cooly  making 
preparations  to  go  on  with  his  everyday  work;  it  was 
evident  also  that  neither  Dorcas  nor  her  niece  were  go- 
ing to  make  any  remonstrance.  She  felt  that  it  had 
been  only  by  calling  to  her  aid  her  Christian  fortitude, 
that  she  had  endured  hearing  him  talk  up  his  theories; 
but  when  it  came  to  deliberately  carrying  out  his  de- 
structive notions,  neglecting  church  service  and  going 


50  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

all  the  week  through  without  a  season  of  prayer,  and 
then  to  speak  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter  as 
though  this  heathenish  way  of  doing  was  right,  it  was 
more  than  her  Puritanic  principles  could  bear.  She 
shifted  about  uneasily  while  the  doctor  changed  his 
coat,  and  made  ready  for  a  drive.  She  still  held  the 
Book;  she  felt  a  sort  of  mastery  while  her  hand  was 
upon  it,  for  no  matter  how  tyrannic,  how  intrusive, 
how  inconsistent  she  was,  no  matter  hoAV  much  dark- 
ness and  bitterness  she  threw  into  human  lives,  about 
her,  with  her  way  of  reading  its  passages,  she  always 
found  vindication  for  word  and  action  there. 

Presently  she  spoke  and  a  heavy  si^li  ran  before  the 
words:  "James,"  she  said,  "I'd  hate  to  follow  a  busi- 
ness that  would  keep  me  away  from  the  house  of  the 
Lord  on  the  Sabbath  day.  That  isn't  the  way  your 
mother  raised  you,  Fm  sure." 

The  Petersen  children  were  down  with  diptheria, 
but  that  they  needed  skilled  medical  attention  was  to 
her  just  now  a  matter  of  subordinate  importance. 

The  man  stood  near  the  open  door  and  he  stopped 
there  a  moment,  and  pushed  back  his  heavy  hair,  while 
his  broad  brow  was  gently  fanned  by  the  cooling 
breeze,  which  came  softly  in  from  the  sea.  A  show  of 
sympathy  came  over  his  own  strong  face,  as,  turning 
about,  he  looked  into  the  stern  one  opposite.  He  an- 
swered in  his  natural  free  manner  of  speaking:  "No, 
that  isn't  the  way  my  mother  raised  me,  Khoda,  you're 
right.  Back  in  Baxter  I  always  knew  where  I'd  find 
myself  on  Sunday.  I  have  been  told  that  I  was  a  regu- 
lar attendant  at  church  service,  from  the  first  weeks 
of  my  existence.  Now,  I  think  of  it,  I  remember  that 
prejudice  was  instilled  into  me  early.  In  my  helpless 
childhood  I  was  made  a  Presbyterian.  Like  you  folks 
I  even  brought  the  habit  with  me  when  I  came  to  this 
country.  I've  attended  some  since  I've  been  here,  but 
I  don't  go  now,"  he  added  frankly.  "You  don't  mean 
to  tell  me  that  after  the  way  you've  been  raised  you 
.  do  not  go  to  church  at  all!"  she  ejaculated  in  astonish- 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  51 

ment.  "L  must  speak  the  truth,  Ehoda,  I  rarely  ever 
illuminate  the .  sanctuary  with  my  presence.'^- .Then 
quickly  remembering,.,  "I  went  to  John>  Bigelow's 
funeral  helcl  in  the  church, a.year  or  so.. ago,"  :he  said. 
"I  went  with,  Dorcas;,  she'll  remember  when  it  .was." 
Ehoda  gave  a  dissatisfied,.. -shrugs  and  'shrunk  more 
closely  within  hers.e.lf  as  though  she  feared  contamina- 
tion. /Tve  always  heard,  Calif ornia.. was, a  1  dreadfully 
wicked  place j'"..,,>Vha^t..pjxzzl.ed  the  doctodwas  that  she 
f^eemed  to  enjoy,: a  sort  of  divijie  cojisolation^in  the 
fact,  that  she  had  found  proof  of  it.  .Slie.  continued, 
turning  and^  looking  .out  of  the.  window  and  with  an  odd 
contraction, qf  the  thin,  :spar^e  lips,  "Before  I  came  out 
here  I  supposed  you  at  least  took  time  to  worship  on 
the  Sabb-ath."  She  had  ,-,  f orcedv  him  into  a  position 
where  he  must  explain  himself.  He  laid,  his  driving 
gloves  carefully  on  th^  corner  of  the  mantel  and  with 
an  indescribable-  ease  and  dignity,  seated  himself  in 
an  armchair. not  far. from  his. brother:  "John,"  he  said 
reflectively,  "I  hadn't  thought  so  much  about  it  before, 
but, I've  grown  entirely  away  from  the  old  training;  I 
see  it  now."  Presently,  renewing  the  conversation, 
"Ehoda^"  he  said,  mildly,  "I  really  can't  see  why  we 
should  worship  any  mo-re  on ; the  Sabbath  than  on  other 
days.  God's ■  providential  -jcare  of  affairs  about  ^me  is 
unremitting,"  It  was. his  honest,  earnest,  manhood 
that  spoke  now.  -In  every  day: of  the  week  I  am  con- 
fj:onted.  with,  the  consciousiness  of  God's  good-ness." 
.  A  block  of  golden  sunshine  framed  out  by  the  open 
door  lay  on  the  carpet  at  his  feet;  ^the  light.  bran<^h 
of  an.accacia  tree,  made  flitting  shadows  across  it  as  it 
\yave.d  lightly  in  the  soft- morning  breeze;  He -studied 
the  beauty,  of  it  a  moment.  Eaising  his  head  again,  he 
said:  f"What.is,  worshipT— real,  true-  worship?"  Then 
finswered  in  ..a  way.  that  had  seemed  the  .-strongest' to 
him,  "Tq  c];is.seet  a  hand  an-d  gain  some  comprehension 
of^  what  the  great- ;God  is  capable  •  .Y-ou.-mi&judge.me; 
i  .am^a..worship.er.  ,  I.-jpan  speak,  of  dt  without  boasts- 
it,  argues -po  good  in  ::me.    ..Ay.he,ther  I;  will,  or  ;no  .1  can- 


52  A8  GOD  MADE  HER. 

not  help  but  worship.     Eyes,  ears,  mind,  brain,  heart, 
acknowledge  the  Divine  greatness.     A  thousand  times 
a  day  as  1  study  the  wonder  of  things  around  me  I  am 
forced    to  gratitude,    admiration,    veneration,    love;  a 
thousand  times  a  day  I  soulfully  say:  ^Good  God,  great 
God,  kind  God,  wise  God,  wonderful  God!'     I  tell  you," 
he  added  earnestly,  ^^the  idea  that  you  absolve  yourself 
from  all  obligation  by  attending  church   on   Sunday, 
and  the  idea  that  you've  got  to  go  into  a  house  to  find 
God,  or  that  you've  got  to  hire  some  man  in  clerical 
garb  to  help  you  to  reach  Him,  is  all  a  mistake."     John 
followed  his  brother's  words  with  eager  inquiry.  When 
he  had  finished  speaking,  dead  silence  reigned  in  the 
room.     Rhoda  was  all  unprepared  for  any  such  reply. 
The  newness  of  the  thought  utterly  disconcerted  her. 
She  sat  with  quietly  folded  hands,  awed  by  the  speak- 
er's earnestness.     She  was  so  jostled    out    of    herself, 
that  for  the  time  she  lost  the  power  of  speech.     On  re- 
covering a  little,  she  said:  "I  suppose,  James,  that  you 
would    even    say    that    there    was  no  use  of  building 
churches  at  all.'"'    The  doctor,  feeling  urged  to  it,  pro- 
ceeded to  set  forth  his  ideas  in  a  bold,  uncompromis- 
ing Way.     "It  may  be  that  in  the  present  state  of  the 
human  mind  they  are  needed,"  he  said,  "but,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  think  that  when  men  help  their  brothers 
into    more    natural,  happy,  and    healthful    conditions; 
that     when    they    assist  "^  in    bringing    health-bearing 
breezes  to  starving  lungs;  that  when  they  hunt  out 
preventatives  and  cures  for  disease;  when  they  help 
give  to  the  children  of  the  poor  a  chance  to  be  human 
' — I   think  that  when  men  do  these  things,  they   do 
more  for  God  than  when  they  build  cathedrals  to  His 
glory."     It  was  plain  now  that  the    doctor    had    his 
ideas  fonnulated,  and  that  he  dared  to  present  them. 
"But  don't  you  think  that  God  takes  vengeance  on  those 
wno  do  not  come  up  to  scripture  rules?"     Rhoda  asked 
with  a  show  of  alarm.     Pondering  on  the  narrowness 
of  their  thoughts,  the  doctor  looked  upon  the  two  with 
pity.     The  memory  of  his  own  life  back  in  the  time 


A   STORY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIFE.  53 

when  he  had  been  held  in  by  cramped  and  cruel  faiths, 
came  vividly  before  him,  "Khoda — John,"  he  said, 
''Look  there,"  and  he  pointed  out  the  low  window, 
where  they  might  catch  a  view  of  the  stretch  of  trees 
and  flowers.  "With  my  feeble  help  God  has  for  me 
made  this  place  what  it  is.  That  tree  there,"  he  said 
impulsively,  "look  at  the  height  and  the  freshness  and 
the  symmetry  of  it.  I  planted  it  the  day  my  daughter 
was  born.  All  these  years  since  I  came  here,  God  has 
sent  the  sunshine  and  the  dew  and  the  rain.  He  has 
made  the  trees  to  bud,  and  the  crops  to  grow,  and  the 
fruit  to  ripen."  As  he  went  on  he  talked  with  more 
fervor.  "He  has  kept  the  air  about  me  balmy  and 
wholesome.  He  has  made  all  the  beauty,  and  the  ani- 
mation, and  the  brightness  and  the  color."  His  fine 
eyes  grew  tender  and  his  face  was  full  of  deep  expres- 
sion, as  he  said:  "In  all  that  has  been  done  for  me  here, 
I  can  see  a  kindly  bounty,  a  gentle  beneficence,  study 
it  as  I  may,"  he  added,  emphasizing  his  words  with  a 
movement  of  the  head,  "I  can  read  in  it  no  hidden 
motive  of  revenge.  1  do  not  know  anything  about  a 
God  of  vengeance,"  he  said  in  tones  of  deepest  grati- 
tude, "I  know  only  of  a  God  of  compassion,  of  tender- 
ness and  love." 

"Well,  James,  whether  you  are  going  to  acknowledge 
that  you  have  any  need  for  it  or  not,  you  surely  will 
concede  that  piety  is  a  great  preservation  to  the 
young,"  Ehoda  interposed  again.  She  was  thinking  of 
Doyt.  "If  you  mean  a  veneration  and  love  for  the 
Divine  Being,  and  a  conscientious  abiding  by  His  laws, 
I  think  that  preserves  people  both  young  and  old.  No 
matter  what  our  creed,  we  are  God's  children  only 
when  we  conscientiously  study  out  how  He  designed  us 
to  live,  and  then,  perceiving  the  divine  wisdom  of  it, 
follow  it  to  the  letter,  keeping  ourselves  in  conditions 
to  receive  what  He  has  planned  for  us  to  have.  A 
man  cannot  be  bound  to  one  belief.  Creeds,  politics, 
or  religions,  hamper  a  man.  He  must  be  left  free  to 
advance,  expand,  to  outgrow  even  himself.     It  seems, 


54  ^S  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

though,  that- there  must  he  al\ra}^s  something  of  man's 
making,  if  it  be  nothing  more  than  a  roof,  between  the 
people  and-  God,'' 'lie  added  regretfully.-  Becoming 
thoroughly  interested 'now,  he  continued  to  talk:  "The- 
preacher  who  -fepeaks  from  churclr  pulpits,  and  lays 
down  the  law,  no'  matter  what  he  woulil  like  to  say,  is 
hiredHo'do -a  set^  thing;'  to  preadi  Calvinism  or  Camp^ 
bellisni' or  Wesleyism  or  Lutherism-^at  aiiy  rate,  t6  • 
defend 'somebody  ^else*s  opinion.!  T- like  to  hear  meii 
talk  whom  I  think  have  made  ori^nal,  ^persevering;' 
disinterested  Search  after  truth  and  who  then  present 
it  with  eiergy -and  zeal."  -   '  .-,»- 

Preseiitly  Khoda  spoke  again:  "It  certainly  behootes  ■ 
people  to^shape  "their 'lives  so  as  to'b^e  sure  of  Heaven.''' 

"It  was  never  in  my  constitution,  Rhoda;  to  be'good*,^"' 
just:  f'or 'the 'hope  of  reward.    'Goodness    begotten   ©f'^^- 
f ear  is  hypocrisy.     Besides,  if    you.  will  ; pardon    me;  '■ 
streets <paved  with,  gold  do  riot  attract  me.     The  most  '-^ 
beautiful  satisfying  Heaven  one  can  pict\ire  is  a  garden^-' 
with  growing:  ^^lants,  shiidy  walks,  waving  treses,  fi^a-a- 
grant  flowers,' green  grass,'-  God  has  been' "g^od' enough   ■ 
to  giVe  that  to  me  here."     He  added  rumiriatively,  "I" 
do  not  know  anything  about  a  world  beyond.     What  I   ' 
knowtig;-God  has  been, good  enough  to  create  and  fiir- 
nish-this'w<3rld'for  me."     He  added,  "M  there  is  an- f' 
othdr  more  perfect,-!:  don't -know  of  any  better  way' to -^ 
prove  ,-th4t'i 'am 'pretfrnred 'for  it,  than  to  show' appre^ 
elation 'for  the  beauty  and  comfort  of  this."     It  was  ■ 
John,-  who,  not  fully  understatiding,  was  yet  strongly 
impressed  with  what  his 'brother  liMd  said,  and  anxious 
to  learn 'mdrebf  his -belief  now  asked:  ^' James;  aswe;' 
must  be' governed  by  some  ruk,  is  there  not  a' necessity  ' 
for  church  rule ?'"''•■  '  ^       -       '  ''        -        ''^ 

"Thei  trouble  is  we  are  living 'too  much  under  snb-" 
lunary  authority;'  we  are  too,crampied;'-the  cliurch  rUle  ' 
is  man^S'Tule.  No  m'atter  to  how  many  organizatiohs -^ 
a  human  beihg  may  belong,  he  olives  •healthfully,  and  ^ 
worthily  only  when  he  is  obeying  God's  law,  and  men's  •- 
laws  are  only  good  when  they  agree  with  God's  law. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  55 

Often/''  he  said  pondering,  "men's  laws  clash  against 
God's.     God's  laws  are  all  beneficent;  men's  laws  are 
cruel,  hard,  nnjust.     For  an  illustration:  God  makes 
the  illegally  born  child  just  as  bright,  beautiful,  active, 
strong,  interesting    and    winning    as    other    children. 
When  I  know,"  he  added   with   some   bitterness,  ''the 
mark  man  sets  upon  it  and  see  that,  faultless  in  itself, 
it  is  made  to  suffer  all  the  days  of  its  being  for  a  sin 
in  which  it  had  no  part,  I  hate  the  world's  laws."     He 
had    arisen    now    and  was  making  ready  to  go.     His 
brother  too  arose  to  his  feet  and  standing  not  far  away, 
said  quietly:  "Tell  me,  James,  do  you  believe  in  pray- 
er?"    "Believe  in  prayer?     Yes,  I  believe  in  prayer; 
that  is,  in  prayer  which  is  all  thankfulness  and  grati- 
tude."    He   spoke  with  a  sort   of  gentle  impatience. 
"God  everywhere,   ourselves  working  with  Him,  pro- 
vides an  abundance.     It  is  ingratitude  to  overlook  the 
prodigality   of   God's  beneficence,   and   ask  for  more. 
If  the  greed  of  men  keep  it  out  of  our  reach,  we  might 
with  some  show  of  reasonableness  pray  to  them.     Pray- 
er to  God,"  he  said  determinedly,  "if  made  at  all,  ought 
to  be  made  in  a  fervor  of  joyous  impulse.     Instead  of 
that,  the  best  men  according  to  the  church's  standard, 
prav  as  though  this  world  were  blank,  drear}^,  squalid, 
stagnant.     If  this  be  true,  man  has  made  it  so;  be- 
sides they  go  and  tell  God  the  same  story  over    and 
over  every  day,  as  though  he  could  never  understand. 
The  wise  God,"  he  resumed,  "needs  no  dictation."     A 
moment  later  he  added  thoughtfully:  "For  a  long  time 
now  I  have  believed  that  men  make  a  mistake,  when 
they  talk  to  God,  instead    of    listening."     Before    he 
went  out  of  the  door,  he  said  again:  "In  accordance 
with  the  rules  of  hospitality,  Khoda,  I  should  accom- 
pany you  and  John  to-day,  but  I  cannot  possibly  go; 
and  I  find  excuse  for  my  Reprehensible  conduct,  in  that 
my  house  is  to  be  respectably  represented.    Besides  you 
and  John,  and  Doyt  and  Dorcas,  there  is  Tim  gone  on 
to  Sunday-school,  fully  an  hour  since."     Bowing,   he 
said  pleasantly,  "I  am   grateful,  Khoda,  at   least    for 


r,G  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

your  solicitude  in  regard  to  my  spiritual  welfare.  Per- 
haps I  am  growing  too  rapidly  and  need  just  now  the 
restraining  influence  of  some  pious  friend."'  He  went 
out  at  the  side  entrance;  as  he  stepped  to  the  ground, 
he  stopped  and  culled  one  of  the  "La  France"  roses,  that 
grew  in  profusion  near.  He  held  it  in  his  hand  for  a 
moment  and  looked  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  beauti- 
ful, fragrant,  soft  petaled  thing,  and  said  again:  "I 
really  do  not  see  that  after  all,  there  is  pressing  need 
for  pulpits  and  sermons;  that  is,''  he  added  slowly,  "as 
long  as  God  continues  to  make  roses.'' 

Doyt,  just  coming  into  the  room,  had  heard  the  lat- 
ter part  of  what  her  father  had  said,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  out  of  the  door  and  walking  by  his  side.  With 
great  feeling,  she  protested;  "You  don't  need  her  pious 
influence;  you  don't  need  anybody's  care.'' 

She  remained  with  her  father  until  he  drove  away, 
when  he  said  to  her  kindly:  "Don't  allow  any  harsh 
thing  she  says  to  w^orry  you,  my  daughter.  We  must 
make  allowance  for  her,  you  know.  Why,"  he  said 
looking  around  him,  "the  piece  of  blue  sky  that's  above 
Baxter  is  hardly  bigger  than  your  two  hands.  Every- 
thing is  so  different  here  from  what  she  has  been  ac- 
customed to,  that  it  is  really  a  wonder  that  she  has  sur- 
vived the  transplanting  at  all." 

Doyt  watched  her  father  as  he  drove  away.  She  was 
a  child  still  and  the  joy  of  being  alone  with  him  again, 
if  only  for  a  moment,  brightened  for  her  the  remainder 
of  the  dav. 


A   STORY  OF  CALTFORNIA   LIFE.  57 


CHAPTEB  XII. 

When  at  last  they  set  out  for  church,  Dorcas  walked 
demurely  along  by  the  side  of  Rhoda,  to  whom  she 
pointed  out  places  of  interest  along  the  way,  while  be- 
hind them  Uncle  John  and  Doyt  followed. 

There  was  a  bright  red  color  in  Doyt's  cheeks,  and 
her  blue  eyes  were  sparkling,  giving  assurance  of  cheer- 
ful feeling,  and  she  spoke  to  her  Uncle  lightly  and 
carelessly,  yet  in  her  Aunt's  presence  she  had  been 
made  to  feel  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  it  was  a 
sin  to  be  merry.  They  passed  along  the  walks  and  un- 
der the  palms  and  pepper  trees  that  shaded  them. 
Here  a  gallant  team  of  horses  whirled  past,  while  many 
people  came  and  went,  some  dressed  in  the  showy 
adornment  of  fashion. 

Farther  on  they  passed  Grandma  Williams'  place. 
The  sun's  rays  fell  across  the  open  window  ledge,  and 
was  reflected  from  the  bright  tin  coffee  pot  which 
hung  opposite.  Doyt  left  her  companions  and  flitted 
over  to  the  window  and  called. 

Grandma  smiled  her  gladness  at  seeing  her  again,  but 
there  was  such  pathetic,  patient  sorrow  in  the  grand 
old  face,  that  Doyt  felt  an  almost  irresistible  impulse 
to  rush  to  her  side  and  spend  the  morning  there. 

Just  now,  however,  another  duty  devolved  upon  her, 
and  bidding  her  gentle  old  friend  good-bye,  she  walked 
again  by  her  Uncle's  side,  until  they  reached  the  church 
steps.  Dorcas  led  the  way,  and  as  they  went  inside 
the  air  grew  perceptibly  colder,  and  the  light  paled, 
falling  dimly  through  the  stained  glass  windows. 
They  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  an  assemblage 
of  well-dressed  people,  and  in  a  pew  well  up  to  the 
front,  the  four  sat  down  together. 


58  Af^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  house,  having  been  carefully 
preserved  from  the  week  before,  had  a  solemnizing  in- 
fluence, and  the  chill  of  the  place,  made  Doyt  shiver. 
Her  healthful  lungs  had  not  been  accustomed  to  being 
stinted  in  the  way  of  -oxygen-,  and  she  felt  stifled  and 
oppressed.  The  music  which  followed  the  opening  an- 
them was  to  her  slow  and  depressing,  and  though  she 
studied  carefully  the  w^ords  of  the  hymns,  she  could 
not  understand.  She  saw  Aunt  Ehoda  bow  her  head 
reverently  during  prayer,  and  sit  rigidly  through  the 
sermon,  perceptibly  shocked  that  her  unregenerate 
niece  sat  unresponsive  through  it  all.  By  the  time 
the  sermon  was  over  and  the  services  were  ended  Doyt 
felt  that  religion  was  a  most  bewildering  thing.  She 
had  never  been  trained  to  associate  God  with  gloom 
and  darkness,  and  stagnant  air  and  doleful  music. 
She  had  never  been  taught  the  need  of  prayer.  God 
was  her  loving  Father,  with  all  the  tenderness  of  mean- 
ing that  the  word  father  to  her  implied.  She  saw  always 
before  her  the  proofs  of  His  loving  kindness,  in  the 
regularity  of  growth,  in  the  unfolding  of  the  bud,  in 
the  painting  of  the  flower,  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun- 
shine, in  the  calmness  of  the  moonbeams,  iji  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  dawn,  in  the  glory , of  the  day,  and  in  the 
soft  serenity  .of  the  r^ight.  .  He  gave  her  all  things  so 
freely  and  voluntarily  she  had  no  need  to  ask.  Why 
should  she  presume  to  advise  or  dictate,?  All  her 
duty  lay  in  a  constant  acknowledgment  of  His  good- 
ness and  in  feeling  safe  in  His  hands. 

When  the  services  were  over  and  they  came  out 
through  the  arched  doorwa}^,  the  delicious  day  was  in 
all  its  glory;  the  yellow  sunlight  gilding  grass  and 
house  and  tree. 

Linnet  song,  bubbling  forth  with  natural  gladness, 
suffused  the  air  with  soft,  sonorous  cadence;  the  or- 
ange and  lemon  trees  hung  golden,  and  the  branches 
of  the  palms,  sun-glossed,  spread  out  in  feather 
reaches;  fresh,  dewy  flowers  gave  out,  unreservedly, 
fragrance     and     color,    and    tinsel-winged    butterflies 


A    STORY  OF  CATAFORNIA   LIFE.  59 

flitted  wantonly  through  the  balmy  air.  As  they 
started  homeward,  Doyt  by  chance  walked  near  by  her 
Aunt  Ehoda's  side,  an  uncertain  trouble  in  her  round 
face.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  after  the  manner  of 
one  seeking  relief,  and  filled  her  lusty  lungs  to  the  ut- 
most with  the  cool,  clean  air,  and.  at  the  same  time  she 
said  ardently:  "O,- Auntie,  I  like  this  God  that  stays 
out -of  doors  yo'  mtich  better  than  I  do  the  one  they 
keep  in  the  dlltrphes." 


•T;!.  T  ^•^    ^>!'~       •    ■■■':■■ 


60  A.S  QGD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

Several  months  had  passed  away. 
One  glowing  eventide  when  they  were  all  gathered 
around  the  table  for  dinner,  Dr.  Harding,  who  had 
been  talking  of  an  interesting  and  pathetic  case  which 
he  had  been  handling,  leaned  languidly  back  in  his 
chair.  The  daily  sight  of  physical  suffering  has  its 
effect  on  even  the  strongest  nerves.  A  moment  after- 
ward the  doctor,  full  of  loyalty  to  his  people,  said:  "I 
am  glad  that  my  practice  admits  me  to  close  intimacy 
with  my  fellow  men.  I  do  not  care  to  disunite  from 
them;  but,''  he  added  ardently,  ^Hhey  believe  so  in  me; 
they  depend  so  upon  my  skill  and  resources,  that  firm 
and  hardy  as  I  am,  I  must  go  away  sometimes  to  renew 
my  strength.  I  must  not  let  the  miseries  of  the  human 
kind  disable  me,  and  when  I  grow  weary  of  the  har- 
ness and  chafe  under  it  I  must  throw  it  off.  Unless  I 
am  strong  when  I  go  among  my  patients  I  do  them  lit- 
tle good."  He  continued  suggestively,  "The  weather 
is  at  such  a  temperature  as  to  encourage  it;  I  don't  see 
what  is  to  hinder  our  setting  out  for  the  beach  some- 
time soon."  He  began  to  enumerate:  "Let  me  see," 
he  said,  "Mrs.  Lane  is  out  of  danger;  Jack  Ewing  is  con- 
valescent; Mrs.  Bibbs'  baby  is  recovering;  I  have  no 
serious  cases;  just  now  there  are  no  epidemics  in  the 
community."  He  knew  that  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
arranged  to  go  and  were  only  awaiting  his  opportunity 
to  get  away. 

Dorcas  decided  that  everything  not  already  pre- 
pared  could  be  put  in  form  by  the  following  afternoon. 

Tim  had  been  promised  that  he  should  be  one  of  the 
party,  and  to  hear  the  matter  discussed  even  had 
thrown  him  into  a  state  of  perturbation.  He  had 
waited  anxious  and  flushed  for  the  first  moment  of  cer- 


A   STORY   OF  CALIFOKXIA   LIFE.  Gl 

tainty  and  when  that  moment  arrived  he  was  filled  in- 
wardly with  mad  transport.  He  was  in  a  position 
where*^it  would  be  ill-timed  to  Jnmp  np  and  down;  un- 
suitable to  yell.  With  a  curious  control  of  his  infan- 
tile features,  he  smiled  blandly  in  Dorcas'  face,  and 
asked  politely  to  be  excused;  then  went  out  of  the  door 
in  a  most  reckless  fashion,  took  three  turns  about  the 
long  grape  arbor,  before  he  stopped. 

Rhoda  happened  to  sit  where,  looking  out  at  the 
open  window,  she  could  see  him  and  she  informed  the 
rest:  "There  goes  that  'rattle-pate'  again,"  she  said  in 
a  distressed  yoice;  "he's  got  another  tantrum."  While 
the  boy  was  giving  expression  to  such  unrestricted 
yolatility.  the  doctor,  laughing,  leaned  far  to  one  side 
that  he  might  catch  a  yiew  of  him.  As  Tim  continued 
his  gyrations,  he  said  sympathetically:  "The  boy  is  just 
in  the  blinding  blaze  of  his  first  liberty.  The  wee  mite 
has  been  so  little  used  to  happiness,  that  you  see^his 
brain  gets  into  a  wdiirl  at  the  yery  prospect  of  it." 

He  watched  him  still,  and  continuing  the  subject 
he  said:  "He  interests  me.  He  seems  to  me  to  haye 
more  in  him  than  the  average  boy,"  and  he  added  feel- 
ingly, "his  precocity,  too,  seems  to  have  been  born  of 
privation,  for  so  far  as  I  can  find  out  his  seven  years 
have  been  but  seven  years  of  poverty  and  hardship." 
Then  turning  to  his  sister-in-law  he  entreated,  "Don't 
find  fault  with  him,  Ehoda,  he  just  has  a  happy  tem- 
perament and  is  breezy  and  original.  I  can't  see  that 
it  is  such  a  very  wrong  thing  to  persist  in  being  hap- 
py," he  added.  As  she  was  about  to  speak  again,  he 
said:  "You  want  me  to  ask  him  to  modify  his  ecstasies? 
I  could  not  do  it,  Rhoda.  The  boy  has  a  power  of  en- 
joyment which  millioniares  might  envy." 

""That's  just  like  you,  James,  to  laugh  at  his  p-azy 
actions  and  uphold  him  in  everything  he  does,"  was 
Rhoda's  spirited  reply.  "If  you  think  there's  anything 
in  the  boy,  that  is,  that  there's  anything  in  him  that 
makes  it  worth  while  to  trouble  yourself  about  him, 
why  don't  you  punish  him"? 


GC  -I'Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"Why  don't  I  punish  him,  Ehoda?"  He  repeated  the 
words  slowly;  then  pushing  his  niuseular  frame  back 
into  his  arm  chair,  he  answered:  "Because^  if'I  sH'6H!tJd 
strike  a  human  being  so  much  weaker  than  myself:  |s 
Tim  is,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  disgraced  my  streiigm. 
I  can  put  this  right  hand  of  mine  to  better  u^'^^'t '  l|  I 
should  beat  him  now  and  should  meet  him  afea'ii\  when 
the  years  had  put  power  into  that  frail  right  arm  Of 
his,  and  he  should  strike  me  with  the  full  force'  of ^  its 
garnered  strength  in  retnrn,  I  should  feel  tliat'hi^^was 

iustified  and  that  I  deserved  the  blow."  "'"'^ 

''  ..-.   rivu^t 


ftj 

^IT    hiiii   kiUyi! 

''ih 

p^jiiiq^  ei'ijboi 

in 

^mh  ,'/od  *^dr 

ii.i 

?fn-.>w  T^  ^-^iJi- 

-i= 

«lov    *'kl(?b    ''^■. 

i*/ 

A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  63 


CHAPTEK  XIV. 

Save  bedding,  the  cottage  at  the  beach  was  all  fur- 
nished under  Dorcas'  management.  The  work  of  get- 
ting ready  was  light  and  soon  after  noon  the  next  day, 
they  were  on  the  road. 

Doyt  went  on  horseback;  the  two  women  and  the 
doctor  and  his  brother  in  the  carriage;  a  man  from  the 
place,  Tim  by  his  side,  followed  with  a  spring  wagon 
loaded  with  blankets  and  provisions. 

Down  the  avenue  they  went,  the  doctor  holding  the 
lines  and  there  w^as  a  pleasant  sound  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  on  the  hard,  smooth  highway  as  they  moved  off 
at  a  brisk  trot. 

The  road  for  a  time  lay  through  blooming  orchards, 
solid  masses  of  delicate  pink  and  white,  and  past  fresh 
and  well-kept  gardens  and  vineyards,  while  everywhere, 
the  sides  of  the  driveway  and  the  pasture  lands  were 
gemmed  with  golden  poppies  glittering  in  settings  of 
green. 

The  wholesome  sea-washed  air,  the  serene  earth,  the 
incense  of  acres  of  flowers  about  them,  the  glad  sun- 
light around  them,  the  summer  blue  above  them;  the 
song  of  bird  voices,  the  murmur  of  running  streams, 
the  varied  shades  of  green  of  the  trees  and  grass,  the 
gorgeousness  of  color  in  the  blossoms,  the  beauty  and 
the  freshness  and  the  harmony  of  it  all,  seemed  to  have 
entered  into  the  very  souls  of  the  little  company. 

To  Rhoda,  used  to  such  monotony  and  uniformity, 
the  ride  was  full  ot  delights  and  surprise,  and  even  her 
face  on  this  occasion  wore  an  air  of  contented  cheer- 
fulness. 

They  passed  handsome  mansions  and  cozy  little 
homes,  villas  surrounded  by  myriads  of  flowers  and 
mossy  grass  -plats,  and  here  and  there  the  white  fronts 
of  the  cottages,^  could  be  seen  gleaming  through  the 
green  glossy  leaves,  and  the  golden  fruit  of  the  orange 
and  lemon  trees. 


CA  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AVhile  they  drove  along  John,  stretching  out  his 
hand  that  it  might  catch  the  bahny  air,  said  in  a  per- 
plexed way:  "Among  the  strange  things  to  me  in  this 
country  is  the  way  you  trust  the  weather.  In  New 
Hampshire  now,"  he  added,  "the  first  and  foremost 
item  in  any  undertaking  is  the  anxiety  over  the  kind 
of  day  you  are  going  to  have  for  it.  Here  you  just  se- 
lect an  occasion  when  it  seems  convenient  for  you  to 
go,  and  without  fooling  away  any  time  attending  to 
the  condition  of  the  atmosphere,  you  set  out  and  find 
everything  just  as  if  it  had  been  ordered  for  perfect 
comfort.  I've  heard  how  in  California  the  warmth  and 
fragrance  of  the  summer  gets  mingled  with  the  cool 
freshness  of  the  Springtime.     Here  we  have  it." 

Turning  around  a  curve  in  the  road  they  came  to  a 
place  where  a  rough  wooden  bridge  crossed  a  narrow 
stream,  and  under  the  hanging  boughs  of  a  walnut  tree 
at  the  side  of  the  gurgling  water,  they  stopped  till  Doyt 
rode  up. 

In  her  there  was  not  a  trace  of  weariness  visible. 
She  rode  with  the  same  agile  grace  as  when  they  had 
set  out ;  her  blue  eyes  were  flashing  and  her  cheeks  ting- 
ling with  fresh  color. 

There  was  almost  a  smile  in  Rhoda's  steel  gray  eyes 
and  she  greeted  Doyt  with  an  air  of  friendliness,  which 
quite  disconcerted  that  unexpectant  maiden,  when  she 
noticed  her  Uncle  John  was  chivalrously  preparing 
to  crawl  out  over  the  wheel  of  the  carriage.  "Here 
little  one,  take  this  seat  here  by  the  side  of  your  father, 
and  let  me  try  it  on  horseback  for  awhile,"  and  he  be- 
gan taking  in  a  deep  breath,  as  if  strengthening  him- 
self for  the  ordeal. 


A   STORY   OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  55 

"Santo'^  had  stood  munching  the  green,  tender  grass 
that  grew  along  the  rivulet^s  edge.  But  now  Doyt 
gathered  ujd  the  bridle,  ^'I  thank  you,  Uncle  John," 
she  said,  "It's  uncommonly  kind  of  you  hut  don't  think 
for  a  moment  that  1  am  not  comfortable  here  on  San- 
to's  back;  besides,  I  am  accustomed  to  riding  and  pos- 
sibly you  are  not!"  Then  as  if  fearing  that  he  might 
urge  his  proposition,  she  spoke  to  the  horse  and  as 
he  went  ambling  across  the  bridge,  she  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  waved  her  hand. 

"How  mu)ch  farther  do  we  go?"  Rhoda  asked  dis- 
turbedly.  "What  can  you  be  thinking  of?  Why 
didn't  you  stop  her?  You  ought  not  to  let  her  ride 
on  horseback  so  far;  it's  too  taxing  on  a  woman's 
strength." 

The  remonstrance  was  addressed  to  the  physician, 
and  in  a  seriously  apprehensive  tone. 

"It  may  be  now  that  we  shall  not  catch  up  with  her 
again  till  we  arrive  there,"  he  answered  composedly. 
After  thinking  a  minute  he  said,  and  with  some  show 
of  irritation:  "But  why  shouldn't  she  ride  and  any  dis- 
tance she  wishes?  There's  a  fascination  in  the  exer- 
cise for  her;  it  brings  her  muscles  into  use/'  and  he 
found  himself  driven  back  to  his  old  theme  again  and 
battling  for  women's  freedom.  "She  has  a  right  to 
the  exercise  of  her  powers.  She  has  splendid  devel- 
opment," he  went  on,  "and  I  want  to  let  her  keep  it. 
I  have  not  overestimated  her;  she  will  make  the  jour- 
ney without  fatigue,"  he  announced  decisively. 

Then  it  was  John  who  spoke.  He  said:  "I've  been 
doubting  whether  you  were  doing  the  best  thing  for 
the  girl,  but  I  begin  to  see  you  are  right.  Still,  not 
many  girls  could  stand  the  strain  of  a  twenty-mile  ride 
like  that." 

"'And  why  can't  they  stand  it  ?"  the  doctor  returned, 
and  his  love  for  his  daughter,  his  pride  in  her,  and 
unselfish  interest  in  her  welfare,  threw  a  sort  of  sub- 
limity into  his  face  as  he  talked.  "Because  those  who 
have  charge  of  them,  begin  early,  and  hold  them  down 
5 


6(5  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

rigorously;  they  make  them  sit  in  the  house  and  watch 
the  boys  at  play;  they  teach  them  to  be  afraid  of  the 
sunshine;  they  deny  them  the  legitimate  use  of  their 
limbs  until  they  drift  into  nervous  debility.  Cosmetics 
would  have  no  sale  if  girls  were  allowed  out  door  exer- 
cise, in  loose  clothing,  as  boys.  Corsets  constrict  liver 
and  stomach,  producing  indigestion,  the  forerunner 
always  of  a  sallow,  pimply  complexion.  They  disci- 
pline nature  out  of  them,  educate  it  out  of  them, 
preach  it  out  of  them,  until  they  get  so  far  away  from 
the  original  plan,  that  you  would  hardly  know  that  God 
created  them." 


.4    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA    LIFE.  67 


CHAPTEE  XYI. 

Ehoda  listened  curiously,  and  when  they  had  driven 
farther  she  said:  "Do  you  mean,  James,  that  you  do 
not  believe  in  sending  children  to  school?'' 

He  answered  radically:  "I  do  not  believe  in  sending 
children  to  school  unless  at  the  same  time  they  are  lay- 
ing the  foundation  of  strong  constitutions.  The  very 
value  of  a  child  depends  upon  its  activity  and  if  it  at- 
tends school,  for  nearly  one-half  of  its  waking  hours, 
its  muscles  remain  unused.  Many  of  those  who  have 
the  care  of  children  overlook  their  needs.  They  are 
kept  amid  uncongenial  surroundings,  while  horticul- 
turists, training  plants,  give  them  their  natural  atmos- 
phere; they  seek  out  the  knowledge  that  will  help  to 
satisfy  the  wants  of  the  susceptible  leaves,  and  of  the 
delving  roots;  they  guard  shoot  and  leaf  and  bud  from 
harm;  if  they  droop  and  wilt,  thy  study  what  natural 
thing  they  miss  and  make  good  the  lack.  In  the 
schools  that  I  visit,  I  always  find  the  teachers  wearing 
themselves  out,  trying  to  do  the  most  unnatural  thing 
in  the  world,  that  of  holding  children  in  rows  just  as 
though  they  had  been  created  in  rows  like  peas  in  a 
pod."  He  talked  on  earnestly:  "The  education  is  a 
failure  that  does  not  make  the  arm  stronger,  the  chest 
broader,  the  eye  brighter,  the  step  lighter;  the  educa- 
tion that  cramps  the  body,  hampers  the  muscles,  strains 
the  eye  or  starves  the  lungs,  lowers  the  vitality  or  de- 
stroys the  amiability  or  invites  disease  instead  of  ward- 
ing it  off.  It  is  a  failure  because  what  they  have 
gained,  can  never  equal  what  they  have  lost.  Think 
for  a  minute,  now,  of  a  medical  graduate  with  diseased 
eyes,  pinched  up  lungs,  and  a  sunken  chest.  I  tell  you, 
John,"  he  concluded  decisively,  "the  acquiring  the  one 


Og  AS  fWD  MADE  HER. 

habit   of  deep  breathing  is  worth   th3   whole   college 
course  without  it.'^ 
******* 

For  miles  they  drove  along  and  breathed  in  the 
resinous  odor  of  the  pines  and  eucalyptus  trees,  which 
bordered  the  roadside;  past  handsome  residences  and 
beautifully  kept  grounds;  and  again  they  wound  around 
the  base  of  the  hills  which  were  covered  to  the  summits 
with  evergreens,  and  the  white,  soft  mists  that  came 
in  from  the  ocean  hung  daintily  among  their  topmost 
branches. 

Xow  they  entered  the  pine  forest,  in  the  soft  gloom 
of  wliich  the  air  was  sweet  and  fragrant,  while  here 
and  there  across  the  broad,  smooth  road,  fell  wide 
streaks  of  sunlight. 

Xow  and  then  a  short  distance  ahead  they  caught 
a  view  of  Santo  and  his  rider.  It  grew  interesting  to 
the  others  to  know  how  the  doctor  had  reached  his 
present  advanced  stage  of  thought.  In  explanation  of 
this  the  doctor  talked  on,  the  stream  of  words  falling 
from  his  lips  unbroken. 

^"It  was  once  when  1  was  traveling  through  Colo- 
rado,^^  he  said,  ''that  I  learned  an  enduring  lesson. 
Before  that  time  I  had  taken  my  standard  of  men 
from  what  I  had  seen  around  me;  it  was  there  that  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  what  humanity,  possessed  of  its 
Grod-given  rights,  might  be.  AYell,  as  we  were  riding 
along,  there  came  bounding  to  the  brink  of  a  low  ledge 
near  to  me  a  deer.  Seeing  the  vehicle  it  stopped  short 
in  wonder.  Then  within  thirty  feet  of  me  it  stood 
outlined  against  the  sky  unhampered  in  its  naturalness 
and  as  beautiful  as  if  just  created.  Never  a  breath  of 
untainted  air  had  found  its  way  into  the  lungs;  no  un- 
suitable food  had  ever  poisoned  its  blood;  it  had  spent 
its  life  with  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  roof  and  no  walls 
but  the  horizon.  All  its  faculties  in  full  vigor  and 
every  organ  doing  perfect  work.  Ko  disordered  cir- 
culation, no  irregular  heart  beats.  Grace,  ease, 
strength,  development,  completeness;  a  happy,  beauti- 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  69 

fill,  perfect  creature  at  harmony  with  itself  and  its 
Maker.     In  every  nerve,  muscle,  fiber  and  faculty  that 
deer  was  just  as  perfect  as  deer  could  be.     Through  all 
the  immemorable  generations  of  deer  there  had  been 
no  receding  from  the  original  standard.     It  was  God's 
creature  and  had  never  lost  its  Eden.     God's  plans  are 
too  wise  for  failure,  yet  it  is  only  now  and  then  among 
the  created  millions  tliat  we  find  a  man  who  is  worthy 
to  stand  as  an  example  of  the  best  of  which  human 
life  is  capable.     A  \^on  Humboldt  with  brilliant  men- 
tality, healthful  joy   of    living    and    vigorous    frame 
through  all  the  years  of  his  life  up  to  the  age  of  nine- 
ty-five.    Naturalists  in  their  mountain  and  woodland 
searches  after  God  and  His  wonders  live  the  nearest 
as  their  Maker  designed  them  to  live.     Glad  children 
of  nature  are  they  who,  with  insatiable  delight  and  with 
an  eagerness  that  amounts  almost  to  passion,  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  a  story  book  whose  allurements  never  end. 
"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  and  a  radiance  came  over  his  fine 
face,  "to  me  it  is  like  going  from  the  rush  and  greed 
of  the  world  into  some  woodland  retreat  to  even  recall 
the  names  of  such  men  as  Humboldt,  Cuvier,  Le  Conte, 
Agassiz,  Jordan,  and  Muir.     Not    in    monastery    and 
cloister,  are  men  reaching  their  highest  capabilities. 
It  is  the  lives  of  such  as  these  that  glorify  God.     To 
go  back  to  my  lesson — pondering  over  the  perfection  of 
that  pretty,  "^trusting    creature,  I    learned    that    man, 
fallen  as  he  is  fronfhis  original  standard,  may  yet  re- 
cover his  lost  heritage.     Putting  himself  under  natural 
conditions,  giving  up  his  greed,  living  in  the  sunlight, 
breathing  fresh,  clean  air,  eschewing  all  poisons  and 
eating  pure  food  he  may  come  back  to  the  Creator's 
wholesome  care,  and  be  God's  child  again,  just  as  he 
was  at  the  beginning."     There  was  a  manly  softness 
in  his  voice  as  he  added:  "\Yith  these  thoughts  always 
before  me  I  have  tried  to  rear  my  daughter.     In  the 
feeble  helplessness  of  her  infant  life,  I  found  that  the 
tiny  organs  had  been  providently  placed;  that  the  mus- 
cles, blood  vessels  and    nerves   had   been    constructed 


70  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

with  studied  care.  I  knew  there  must  have  been  a 
Divine  purpose  in  this  and  1  felt  that  a  hoh*  trust  had 
been  given  to  me.  She  came  to  me  anatomically  per- 
fect; I  have  only  tried  to  keep  her  so." 

John  no  longer  sat  in  a  dazed  fashion  while  his 
brother  talked;  he  began  to  understand,  and  every  sen- 
tence his  brother  uttered  now  was  visibly  alfecting  him 
and  conquering  his  prejudice.  All  he  said  at  the  time 
was,  "I  begin  to  comprehend  you  now%  but  at  the  same 
time,  Jim,  I  began  to  feel  as  though  I  had  always 
been  living  half  dead.  It  is  good  to  see  her  though/' 
he  said  soon  afterward:  ''She  is  so  bright  and  healthy 
and  independent.''  Then  he  added  in  a  burst  of  en- 
thusiasm, "The  girl  is  simply  perfect  Jim;  I  don't  see 
what  stronger  proof  we  could  iiave  that  your  methods 
are  right;  she  is   as  God  made  her." 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  71 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

They  were  climbing  the  mountain  now,  and  winding 
around  the  smooth  road  that  led  from  the  foothills 
and  up  among  the  evergreen  trees.  The  horses 
dropped  their  ambling  gayety  and  l)egan  to  drag  reso- 
lutely at  the  straightened  tugs.  The  day  was  radiant, 
the  air  balsam-laden,  a  soft  breeze  just  stirred  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  which  in  places  bent  above  their 
heads,  making  of  the  roadway  low  green  aisles;  and 
squirrels,  alert,  brisk,  nimble,  quaint  wee  packages  of 
vital  force,  lost  their  weariness  and  frolicked  glad- 
somely  about,  and  then  sat  on  their  haunches,  affably 
chattering,  unheeding  human  presence. 

Sometimes  reaching  a  place  where  the  road  bent 
suddenly,  they  caught  a  view  of  Doyt  making  the  turn 
ahead,  and  she  would  stop  and  call  out  to  them  in  a 
voice  that,  as  she  disappeared  again  from  sight,  came 
floating  to  them  on  the  warm  air  as  clear  as  a  silver 
bell. 

Hoping  at  each  turn  that  they  had  reached  the  last 
grade,  on  through  the  black  shadows,  they  mounted 
higher  and  higher,  and  the  horses  breathed  harder, 
and  the  doctor,  after  a  time,  ceased  to  guide  them,  and 
left  them  to  pick  their  own  slow  way. 

Charmed  by  the  freshness,  yet  wearied  with  tedious 
travel,  all  unexpectedly  emerging  from  the  shadows, 
they  came  upon  sloping  reaches  of  vines  and  soon  a 
vineyard,  close-planted  and  clean-kept,  lay  broad 
stretched  before  them.  Here  was  a  low,  brown  cottage 
and  dove-cotes,  and  pink  roses  nodded  over  the  rude 
fence.  Doyt  had  waited  for  them  here  and  while  they 
rested,  the  wagon  and  "Eags"  all  moist,  and  well- 
winded,  came  up. 


73  ^4.S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

When  they  drove  on  again  in  the  stiUness  of  the 
afternoon,  they  made  turn  after  turn,  always  dragging 
upward  and  always  the  great  masses  of  ]iills  still  loom- 
ing ahead.  The  lines  hnng  loose  now,  and  the  wearied 
steeds  stopped  at  will,  and  cropped  by  the  roadside; 
and  then  later,  the  horses  pressed  to  sore  straits,  they 
all  got  out  of  the  carriage  and  walked,  and  slowly  still 
made  their  arduous  AYay  upwards  along  the  narrow 
roadbed,  around  the  roots  of  the  great  trees,  and  where 
the  magnificent  green-clothed  hills  still  held  absolute 
dominion.  It  was  not  until  the  horses  had  been 
pushed  to  the  expenditure,  it  seemed,  of  their  ultimate 
strength  that  the  endless  drag  was  over  and  they  stood 
at  the  seaward  side  of  the  mountain,  and  the  cool  moist 
wind  of  the  Pacific  blew  upon  them.' 

They  had  reached  the  "Mountain  Meadow"  at  the 
summit,  where  there  were  no  trees  but  a  wide  smooth 
space  of  gray  bareness,  and  they  began  already  to  feel 
rested  because  after  weary  hours  of  palpitating  hope 
and  baffled  anticipation  they  could  at  last  see  a  down- 
ward slope  ahead.  They  halted  awhile  where  a  moun- 
tain stream,  bounteously  fed,  went  rushing  by,  gurg- 
ling incessantly,  and  they  drank  of  it  and  the  horses' 
eager  thirst  was  quenched  by  the  sparkling  water,  crys- 
tal pure. 

As  they  went  quickly  doA\ai  the  tortuous  road, 
Rhoda  spoke  again,  her  thin  lips  twisted  to  an  expres- 
sion that  suited  her  words.  This  was  what  she  said: 
"It's  well  enough,  I  can  see,  to  let  little  girls  romp  and 
run,  but  I  think  Avhen  they're  growing  to  be  young 
women  it's  so  much  more  becoming  for  them  to  be 
quiet  and  lady-like." 

UnintentionalJy  she  had  touched  upon  a  point  con- 
cerning which  the  doctor  was  abnormally  sensitive. 
There  came  to  him  now  an  instant  of  sharp  agony. 
That  his  daughter  was  really  approaching  maturity; 
the  thought  brought  to  him  a  certain  bitterness,  a  fear 
of  loss  of  security,  of  evil  perhaps  in  store  for  her,  and 
he  wanted  to  thrust  the  consciousness  of  it  away.     The 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  73 

man  had  always  hoarded  his  own  strength  that  he 
might  live  long  to  care  for  her,  and  now  trembling  he 
asked  himself/  if  it  could  he  that  with  the  exertion  of 
all  his  human  power  against  it,  that  the  time' must 
come,  when  her  step  would  lose  its  elasticity,  and  when 
sorrow  should  cloud  the  brightness  of  her  eyes.  If  the 
time  must  come,  when,  with  all  he  could  do  to  shield 
her,  the  world's  weight  of  care  must  fall  upon  her. 
The  usually  brave  man  was^  silent  for  a  time.  There 
came  an  almost  inaudible  sigh  as  he  said  aloud  and 
tenderly: 

"My  light-hearted,  happy  girl!  Her  life  has  gone 
joyously  so  far,  but/'  he  added  sadly,  "no  life  goes 
smoothly  on  to  the  end.''' 

Tn  reply  to  his  sister-in-law's  words,  he  said:  "I 
never  could  see  why  any  animal  that-  has  been  made 
capable  of  springing  and  bounding,  should  go  creep- 
ing around  over  the  earth.  A  girl,  to  be  considered 
lady-like,  must  not  lift  her  feet  clear  of  the  floor:  she 
must  cross  them;  she  must  be  confined  to  a  dead- 
and-alive  gait.  If  she  were  younger  now,  you  concede 
that  she  might  be  permitted  to  go  according  to  nature; 
she  might  run,  climb,  romp  herself  iuto  robust  health. 
That  to  me,  is  just  where  human  folly  displays  itself; 
for  by  what  sort  of  physiological  reasoning  could 
one  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  girl  must  let  her 
physical  organism  deteriorate;  her  muscles  grow  flac- 
cid from  inaction,  just  as  she  approaches  the  time  for 
maturity,  and  needs  most  deep-lunged  endurance, 
sturdy  health  and  vigor,  and  ample  nerve  supply? 
Think  one  moment  of  a  fashionable  season,  as  a  prep- 
aration for  motherhood.  I  thiuk  that  it  is  decidedly 
unlady-like,"  he  continued,  "to  be  frail  and  helpless 
and  artificial  and  spiritless  and  atrophied  and  neuralgic 
and  dyspeptic." 

"But  surely  you  must  concede  that  women  are 
created  more  delicate— that  is,  less  strong  than  men," 
said  Aunt  Ehoda. 


74  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"That  is  scarcely  true  in  barbarous  nations,  but  even 
granting  it  to  be  true,  there  is  all  the  better  reason 
for  nurturing  the  strength  they  have,  and  keeping  it 
up  to  the  best  possible  standard."  He  spoke  from  the 
physician's  experience  now.  He  said  resolutely: 
"Humanity  is  overlooking  the  vital  point.  The  fact 
is,  every  habit  of  girl  life  should  be  formed  with  the 
one  thought,  to  put  her  in  command  of  her  every 
faculty,  that  she  may  be  prepared  to  credibly  carry 
out  God's  design  of  bearing  children." 

Dorcas  knew  something  of  how  her  brother  felt  on 
this  subject,  though  she  had  never  heard  him  talk  so 
plainly  before. 

Later  the  doctor  said,  contemplatively:  "It  is  a  mat- 
ter that  is  not  often  discussed;  custom  does  not 
sanction  the  mention  of  it;  we  treat  the  affair  with 
indifferent  laxity  or  with  benign  placidity,  as  though 
the  present  harrowing  condition  of  things  were  the 
very  best  possible. 

"Our  government  trains  men  for  war,  and  it  is 
properly  done.  Every  cadet  at  West  Point  is  firm  and 
straight,  no  matter  how  bent  at  the  start.  He  is 
well  developed  and  strong.  That  is  a  great  thing  to 
do;  to  put  men  into  possession  of  their  best  strength 
for  the  time  they  live.  The  government,  in  its  wisdom, 
prepare  men  to  be  killed;  it  has  never  yet  given  the 
least  attention  to  the  matter  of  training  women  for 
mothers  of  healthy  children. 

"Ignoring  suffering  does  not  prove  that  it  does  not 
exist.  There  are  a  few  of  us  who  are  in  a  position 
to  realize  the  dreadful  tragedy  that  ushers  children 
into  the  world.  AMiy  do  I  speak  of  it?  I  am  per- 
petually impelled  to  speak  of  it  from  the  suffering  I 
look  upon.  Always  the  sight  of  the  needless  agony, 
the  thought  of  it  even  sets  the  sympathetic  chords  of 
my  being  vibrating,  because  I  know,"  he  added  with 
sudden  energy,  "that  the  suffering  is  needless;  be- 
cause I  know  where  the  blame  for  it  lies." 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  75 

He  talked  on:  "I  speak  of  it  because  it  is  a  matter 
of  crucial  importance;  because  it  is  culpable  cowardice 
not  to  speak  of  it." 

"I  am  surprised  at  the  way  you  talk,"  returned 
Ehoda,  Avho,  as  usual,  could  not  at  once  reach  the 
height  of  his  thought.  "The  good  Lord  arranged  for 
things  to  be  just  as  they  are,  and  you're  Hying  in  the 
face  of  Providence  to  object  to  it." 

"I  could  have  little  respect,  Rhoda,  for  a  God  who 
planned  the  wretchedly  defective  anatomy  of  woman, 
as  we  find  it  mostly  in*  these  days  of  latest  civilization, 
because  it  would  show  not  only  lack  of  ability,  but 
wicked  design." 

"James,  you  speak  irreverently!" 

"You  misunderstand  me;  I  speak  with  the  highest 
reverence  of  the  creative  ability.  It.  seems  to  me 
that  if  the  human  kind  had  been  taught  anything  like 
the  proper  respect  for  God,  any  appreciation  for  His 
skill,  the  present  state  of  things  could  never  be.  The 
Supreme  Power,  the  great  and  Beneficent  Being  we 
call  God,  is  capable  of  planning  a  human  body  pre- 
pared for  going  through  a  natural  function,  like  that 
of  child-bearing,  without  putting  it  to  the  desperate 
extremity  and  risk  of  life  that  I  see  accompanying  it. 
That  is  where  the  trouble  lies.  Just  as  if  the  great 
and  wise  God  did  not  know  how  to  make  woman! 
With  a  barbarous  conception  of  beauty,  they  go  to 
work  to  improve  upon  His  plan. 

"Woman's  construction  is  perfect.  I  am  all  the 
time  forced  to  contrast  what  I  know  of  the  exquisite 
perfection  and  faultless  harmony  of  the  female  form, 
as  it  came  fresh  molded  from  the  Divine  Hand,  and 
the  ample  preparation  for  all  the  demands  to  be  made 
upon  it,  with  the  appalling  condition  of  the  organism 
with  which  the  doctor  in  his  practice  must  deal.  In- 
stead of  the  well-planned  harmony,  he  usually  finds 
endless  discord.  The  attempt  at  parturition  is  made 
with  every  organ  perversely  out  of  place,  by  tight 
lacing,    with    spine    crooked,    chest    dwarfed,    broken 


76  '    '^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

down  nervous  system;  with  atrophied  muscles,  de- 
formed pelvis,  impoverished  blood;  and  with  the  work 
of  the  abdominal  muscles,  which  are  constructed  for 
unlimited  pla}',  palsied.  The  doctor  attending  is  ex- 
pected to  assist  in  an  impossibility,  must  go  prepared 
for  any  sort  of  emergency,  and  is  himself  blamed,  if 
there  be  any  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  ready  delivery; 
when  he  would  have  to  possess  not  only  perfect 
anatomical  knowledge  and  .surgical  skill,  but  pure 
creative  ability,  to  bring  affairs  to  a  successful  issue." 

"And  only  to  think  of  the  suffering!"  Dorcas  inter- 
polated. 

"Suffering,"  he  repeated,  "I  tell  you  they  have  suf- 
fered until  the  instinct  of  martyrdom  seems  born  in 
woman."  He  continued  earnestly,  "I  often  wonder 
that  there  is  not  enough  dread  of  the  event  of  child- 
birth in  every  woman's  heart  to  quench  the  instincts 
of  maternity  forever." 

The  doctor  spoke  again,  and  the  words  came  with 
quick  utterance. 

"There  is  an  opinion  in  the  pu1)lic  mind  that  woman 
Jacks  heroism.  Look  for  a  moment  at  the  difference 
in  the  conditions  of  each  w^hen  called  upon  for  the 
highest  display  of  fortitude.  Man  goes  into  battle 
buoyed  up  by  comradeship,  and  with  inspiring  music 
and  pomp  and  gorgeous  military  display.  If  he  offers 
his  life  once  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  nation^s  need,  the 
story  of  his  heroism  is  flashed  over  the  earth,  and  is 
recorded  in  the  imperishable  nation's  annals. 

"Woman  goes  to  her  martyrdom  in  a  secluded  place, 
in  a  manger  as  it  were,  alone,  while  if  man  requires 
courage  for  what  he  must  face,  she  must  needs  have 
nerves  of  steel  for  what  lies  before  her.  It  is  not  that 
her  bravery  is  one  whit  the  less,"  he  added  with 
earnestness,  "that  we  judge  wrongly  between  them; 
it  is  only  that  her  deed  is  never  known.  The  news 
of  the  battle  in  which  she  struggles  to  the  death  is 
suppressed.     Woman's  victories  are  never  sung." 


A   STORY   OF   CALIFORNIA  LIFF.  77 

• 

"We're  getting  down  now  to  the  discussion  of  vital 
problems/'  John  said,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  then 
sitting  down  again, 

'"Some  girls  claim  that  they  must  have  stays  to  hold 
them  up/'  Rhoda  interposed,  without  paying  any  at- 
tention  to  what  John  had  said. 

'']SronsenseI"  Dorcas  replied  quickly.  "AYliat  would 
you  think  of  an  animal  that  needed  props  to  hold  it 
together?  I  have  seen  women,  though,  in  just  the 
condition  James  describes,  and  cut  off  from  all  the 
good  things  of  life;  victuals  set  before  them  and  can't 
eat,  air  all  about  them  and  they  can't  breathe." 
Dorcas'  concluding  remark  was:  "What  did  the  Al- 
mighty endow  men  and  women  with  brains  for,  if  not 
to  take  care  of  themselves?  All  other  animals  except 
man,  have  sense  enough  to  eat  proper  food  and  breathe 
proper  air,  and  live  out  their  allotted  lives  free  from 
disease." 

"I.  see  it  all  so  plainly  now,"  said  his  brother;  "I 
mean  that  I  can  see  the  things  that  you  have  brought 
to  my  attention,  James.  What  surprises  me  is  that 
there  has  never  been  more  done  to  bring  general  atten- 
tion to  it." 

"Yes,  the  wonder  is  that  through  all  the  ages,  and 
with  the  agonizing  need,  there  has  been  so  little  pro- 
test. There  has  never  been  any  general  effort  made. 
Once  in  a  while,  though,  a  single  human  being  bringing 
into  use  the  sense  that  God  has  given  him,  makes  a 
praisew^orthy  attempt  to  rescue  humanity  from  its 
pathetic  condition. 

•'T  have  heard  that  not  very  long  ago  a  wide-awake 
young  doctor  of  San  Francisco  tried  to  teach  good, 
common  sense  by  means  of  an  object  lesson;  that  he 
hired  a  show  window  on  Market  street,  and  placed  on 
exhibition  within  it  a  pair  of  cats  just  reaching 
.  maturity,  and  also  a  pair  of  puppies  well  grown.  The 
male  oi  each  was  left  to  frisk  and  gainbol  at  its  will, 
but  the  female  puppy,  as  well  as  the  female  kitten, 
he  placed  in  stays  made  to  fit,  and  pretty  snugly  drawn 


78  ^8  GOD  MADE  HER. 

• 

up.  The  hampered  ones,  endowed  with  instincts  for 
self-preservation,  and  accustomed  to  free  use  of  lungs, 
limbs,  heart  and  muscles,  rebelled.  Instinct  within 
them  was  strong,  and  they  could  not  be  reconciled  to 
forego  all  the  pleasures  of  existence,  and  they  spent 
their  time  in  futile  effort  to  release  themselvesV' 

The  speaker  was  interrupted  by  John,  who  laugh- 
ingly said:  "I  beg  pardon,  but  it  just  struck  me,  how 
contemptible  they  must  have  looked,  how  any  animal 
would  look' — a  calf  for  instance — squeezed  into  the 
hour-glass  shape.  Why,  the  kindest  hearted  of  us  all 
would  want  to  kill  it  to  get  the  hideous  thing  out  of 
sight."  John  turned  toward  his  brother  again,  and 
said  full  of  interest:  '"'Well,  and  how  did  it  end?" 

"They  said  it  drew  great  crowds  of  people;  the 
oddness  and  aptness  of  this  scientific  application,  I 
suppose,  attracting  them;  as  by  w^alking  up  and  down 
the  street  they  could,  any  day,  see  hundreds  of  human 
beings  in  the  same  condition.  Well,  as  time  went  on, 
the  public  interest  as  well  as  the  doctor^s  increased, 
but  his  philanthropic  work  for  the  human  race  was 
interfered  with.  There  is  always  somebody  to  inter- 
meddle with  the  best  things  we  do.  The  ]30or  quad- 
rupeds were  freed,  and  I  suppose  allowed  the  animal's 
privilege  of  producing  their  young  in  something  like 
the  natural  way." 

"And  the  doctor  who  attempted  the  experiment, 
what  came  of  him?"  was  asked. 

"'The  doctor?  0,  the  doctor,  why  he  was  arrested 
by  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals." 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  79 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

When  they  came  down  from  the  mountain  they  be- 
gan to  pass  habitations  again,  but  there  was  less  and 
less  of  color  in  the  landscape  as  they  journeyed  on. 
Presently  they  turned  away  from  the  level  road  and 
drove  quietly  along  a  broad  bluff,  and  now  the  air 
grew  cooler  and  great  masses  of  white  fog  enveloped 
the  carriage  and  then  floated  away  to  eastward.  The 
horses  began  to  sniff  the  salt,  crispy  air. 

"We're  nearing  it  now,"'  John  said,  partly  rising  with 
a  flush  of  enthusiasm,  and  he  put  out  his  hand  again 
and  the  soft  air  bathed  it. 

When  they  paused  for  a  moment,  they  could  hear 
the  rush  and  roar  of  the  waters.  After  a  time  they 
came  out  from  behind  a  ridge  of  stunted  trees  and 
then  before  them,  suddenly  revealed,  lay  the  broad 
stretch  of  the  sea. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the  placid  blue,  and 
at  a  little  distance  out,  a  steamer  with  lines  of  smoke 
trailing  far  behind  it;  and  fishing  boats  nearer,  and 
the  sun's  radiance  toward  the  west,  and  below  where 
they  had  stopped  the  carriage,  the  white  of  the 
breakers,  and  the  lifted  spray,  as  the  banks  of  water 
rushed  against  the  jagged  rocks  at  the  base  of  the 
cliff. 

Doctor  Harding  loved  the  sea.  Whether  he  found 
it  in  storm  or  at  rest,  an  untroubled  peace  always 
came  into  his  soul  at  sight  of  it.  As  he  turned  toward 
it  now,  Dorcas  noted  with  pleasure  the  tranquil  ex- 
pression that  came  across  his  classic  face. 

Many  a  time  John,  though  he  had  never  seen  it,  had 
sketched  out  to  himself  an  imaginary  sea,  but  the 
immensity  and  grandeur  and  weirdness  of  the  reality 
had  never  entered  into  his  conception. 


80  •  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

Klioda  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  gloved  hand,  and  in 
surprise  and  bewilderment,  looked  far  out  on  to  the 
blue  expanse,  and  then  quietly  shrunk  back  into  her 
corner  of  the  carriage.  For  the  few  minutes  that  they 
sat  there  in  that  new,  strange,  vaporous  light,  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  world  it  seemed,  not  a  word  was 
spoken  among  them. 

(Quietly  in  their  ears  the  sound  of  the  water  below, 
washing  against  the  rocks  that  had  stood  the  siege  of 
ages,  the  doctor  called  to  the  horses.  He  turned  their 
heads  about,  drove  quickly  down  the  slope  to  the  cliff, 
and  further  down  to  the  bare,  wide  sands,  and  the 
great  golden  sun  was  low  down  across  the  expanse  of 
water,  as  they  rode  up  to  the  vine-covered  porch  of 
the  cottage. 

Tim  was  there  to  meet  them,  with  an  abundance  of 
cordiality. 

''Rags"  crawled  up  from  wdiere  he  was  lying  stretched 
at  full  length.  He  made  an  odd  effort  to  appear  jocu- 
lar, but  the  mountain  climbing  had  exhausted  his 
canine  strength,  and  the  expression  of  gayety  begun  in 
the  tail,  had  got  no  further  than  that  bushy  appendage, 
when  he  dropped  again  on  the  sand. 

Doyt  had  been  sitting  on  a  rude  bench  under  a 
dwarfed  oak  tree  that  grew  at  the  corner  of  the  cot- 
tage. She  had  taken  off  her  nat,  and  her  w-aving  hair 
lay  moist  about  her  white  forehead;  she  was  bunching 
together  masses  of  poppies  that  she  had  gathered  on 
the  way;  and  it  seemed  to  those  who  loved  her,  that 
she  never  looked  so  fair  as  she  did  here,  with  the  crisp 
sea  air  flushing  her  cheeks,  and  the  crimson  light  of 
the  setting  sun  falling  full  upon  her. 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  gl 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

They  all  noticed  that  John  was  more  quiet  than 
usual  that  evening.  His  mind  had  received  an  entirely 
new  set' of  impressions.  The  awful  grandeur,  of  the 
sea,  and  the  wonder  of  it,  still  held  him,  and  that 
night  when  the  remainder  of  the  party,  breathing  in 
the  strong,  sweet  air,  had  been  lulled  to  sleep,  by  the 
surging  sound  of  the  water,  John  got  up,  and  throw- 
ing on  warm  clothing  went  out  into  the  brooding  night 
alone. 

As  he  stepped  off  from  the  low  porch,  on  either  hand 
was  stretched  the  long  line  of  coast,  the  stars  and  the 
drifting  clouds  above.  Before  him  rose  the  wide  bil- 
lows and  surging  breakers,  and  the  broad,  smooth 
sea  beyond.  The  soft  wind  that  touched  his  cheek 
was  laden  with  the  strange  scent  of  the  sea-weed. 

Conscious  only  of  the  solemn  majesty  of  it  all,  he 
walked  on  till  his  feet  touched  the  firm,  moist  sand, 
near  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  there  he  stood  in 
wierd  solitude,  amid  the  dashing  of  the  waves. 

As  he  gazed  far  out  upon  it  in  the  quiet  of  the. 
night,  the  sea  seemed  still  and  black;  but  nearer  the 
shore,'  as  he  looked,  he  saw  it  mount  in  line,  gradually 
grow,  and  come  nearer,  a  great  fold  of  water  swiftly 
moving  toward  him.  He  saw  the  keen  night  wind 
cut  'its  glassy  edge,  and  throw  it  high  up  in  filmy 
spray.  He  heard  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  water,  then 
the  rushing  and  the  hissing,  then  the  roaring  and  the 
booming;  and  as  he  watched  it,  he  saw  the  heavy  mass 
grow  higher  and  higher,  hang  poised,  toppling  a 
moment,  then  break  into  a  cloud  of  silvery  whiteness, 
and  come  roaring  and  rushing  shoreward.  And  heavy, 
strong,  fast:  rising  behind  it  and  rapid  in  pursuit  of 
it,  comes  another  monstrous  bank;  it  curls  slowly, 
6 


82  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

mounting  higher  and  higher,  and  with  heavier  roar 
and  rush,  breaks  into  soft  mystical  wiiiteness,  sways, 
and  plunges,  reaching  shoreward;. struggles,  breaks 
again  and  glides  on  in  curls  of  foam;  gently,  quietly 
now,  and  with  hushed  murmur;  slowly,  caressingly,  to 
the  sands  at  his  feet,  and  melts  away. 

As  he  still  looks  on,  the  turmoil  increases,  and  the 
great  ocean  seems  to  heap  upon  itself;  the  towering 
breakers  sway  and  plunge,  turn  wildly  to  cross  each 
other,  lose  their  even  lines  of  motion,  and  lie  at  angles 
wdth  the  shore;  reach  greater  heights,  and  come  on 
with  a  wilder  sweep;  and  when  they  have  spent  their 
fury,  creep  higher  and  higher  up  on  the  sand. 

Near  his  feet  is  the  clear  water  and  the  long  soft 
lines  of  white  foam;  and  he  sees  the  night  wind  catch 
up  the  filmy  spray  and  spin  it  giddily  away  along  the 
level  beach. 

The  heavens  above  him  were  studded  with  stars; 
quietly  they  looked  down  on  the  mighty  struggle  going 
on  below,  just  as  they  had  looked  down  upon  it  for 
ages  untold.  He  had  stood  awed  at  first,  but  now  into 
the  man's  soul  a  conception  of  immensity  and  of  in- 
finity entered.  He  listened  again  and  again  to  the 
wierd  sound  of  the  sea.  Now,  to  him  it  seemed  to 
cry  out  in  a  pitiful  way;  now  and  then  there  came 
a  soft  hush;  then  it  seemed  to  be  moaning  with 
anguish,  and  he  gazed  on  it  full  of  compassion.  He 
looked  all  around  about  him  and  above  him.  He  was 
alone  in  the  world — ;alone  with  God-^but  the  dread 
and  the  fear  all  died  away.  Even  if  the  ocean  took 
him  to  its  bosom,  it  would  only  be  in  a  kindly  way. 
Though  it  should  smother  the  life  that  was  in  him,  he 
would  still  be  in  the  kind  God's  hands. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  Almighty  spoke,  and  every 
fiber  of  his  being  was  strained  to  listen. 

"Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God;  a  God  of  soft 
beneficence,  of  kindness  and  love." 

"Fill  out  your  lungs  with  this  air,"  his  brother  had 
said  to  him  yesterday;  "it  is  all  untainted;  it  comes 
straight  from  God." 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  83 

He  breathed  it  in;  again  and  again  he  took  m  the 
great^  sweet  draughts.  He  had  been  growing  for 
months,  gradually  growing  away  from  prejudice  and 
out  of  superstition,  and  now  in  a  moment  he  seemed 
to  comprehend. 

Straight  from  God  came  the  words,  "Study  my  works 
and  know  me.''  The  blessed  truth  burst  upon  him. 
He  and  God  were  one;  he  was  God's  child. 

Studying  tne  mystery  of  the  sea,  he,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  had  seen  God  and  recognized  Him. 
Just  as  the  doctor  long  ago  had  found  Him  in  search- 
ing into  the  intricate  marvels  of  the  human  frame, 
and  just  as  Tim's  eager  mind  had  found  Him  in  the  in- 
finite wonder  of  the  hatched  ^gg. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  began  slowly  to  under- 
stand something  of  the  faith,  and  of  the  gentle  reli- 
gion, which  guided  his  brother's  life.  Since  he  had 
been  Avith  him  again,  he  had  seen  it  shown  in  a  thou- 
sand ways. 

In  his  love  for  his  child — a  love  so  pure,  so  true  that 
every  moment  since  her  birth,  he  had  given  to  study 
how  to  make  her  life  blessed;  in  his  devotion  to  the 
people  he  every  day  went  among;  people  who  follow 
dead  men's  teachings  had  wandered  far  away  from 
their  glorious  birthright,  and  were  diseased  and  needy 
and  helpless. 

He  thought  of  how  his  brother  went  among  them 
healing,  soothing,  cheering;  but  mostly  teaching,  and 
with  what  success,  when  they  could  only  lay  aside  their 
prejudices  and  comprehend. 

He  thought  of  his  kindness  to  the  animals  about  the 
place,  to  the  men  employed  by  him,  of  his  appreciation 
for  Dorcas,  and  of  his  tenderness  for  little  Tim.  He 
thought  of  his  pure  disinterested  love  for  science;  his 
zeal  and  patience  in  searching  out  the  truth  in  his 
tireless  pursuit  of  methods,  whose  object  was  to  amend 
and  exalt  the  human  life. 

He  thought  of  his  justice,  his  truth,  his  honor,  his 
compassion,  his  mercy,  his  integrity  of  action,  all  those 
attributes  which  men  admire  and  call  God-like. 


S4  ^^  <^0D  MADE  HER. 

He  began  to  see  now  why  the  blood  flowed  health- 
fully through  his  veins;  and  how  just  as  the  sunshine 
nourished  the  flowers  to  perfect  unfolding,  the  Divine 
love  had  nurtured  him  into  natural  symmetrical 
growth. 

As  he  pondered,  he  thought  further  of  how  he  had 
seen  his  brother  place  the  plants  in  the  moist  soil, 
stopping  in  his  work,  as  it  were,  and  listening  for 
guidance,  and  of  how  the  plants  assimilated  the  soil, 
and  took  hold  of  it  and  grew;  grew,  he  began  to  see 
now,  because  he  did  things  in  accordance  with  God's 
designs. 

He  saw  that  his  brother,  in  all  that  he  did,  simply 
studied  the  Divine  intention,  then  carefully  carried  it 
out  to  the  letter.  His  purpose. 

It  seemed  to  John,  deliberating  upon  what  he  had 
seen  and  heard,  that  at  last  he  had  learned  how  to  live. 
It  was  such  a  simple,  sweet  lesson;  and  rituals  and 
robes  and  creeds  and  spires  and  cathedrals  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  It  was  such  a  plain  little  lesson,  he 
wondered,  not  only  that  he  had  not  grasped  it  before, 
but  that  all  created  beings  had  not  learned  it. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  ,95 


CHAPTEPt  XX. 

One  afternoon  a  few  clays  after  their  arrival  at  the 
shore  they  were  all  out  on  the  sand.  John,  at  Doyt's 
direction,  had  planted  a  Inige  Japanese  parasol,  so  that 
should  they  choose  to  read  from  the  books  and  papers 
they  had  brought  with  them,  they  might  be  sheltered 
from  the  fervid  sun  rays. 

The  place  they  had  chosen  at  the  sea  was  not  recog- 
nized as  a  fashionable  resort.  There  was  only  a  rustic 
sort  of  hotel,  a  few  white  cottages  and  some  tents  in 
red  and  white,  scattered  along  the  beach. 

The  permanent  population  of  the  place  was  small; 
but  just  now  most  of  the  cottages  were  occupied,  and 
all  along  the  beach,  at  intervals,  were  seated  groups  of 
holiday  people. 

The  great  ocean  lay  calm  and  self-contained  before 
them;  its  whole  surface  a  shimmering  phosphores- 
sence;  the  breakers  gathered  in  majestic  breadth  but 
drove  forward  slowly;  now  and  then  a  bursting  crest 
curled  imposingly  over,  and  rushed  for  a  time  ma- 
jestically onward;  but  meeting  little  resistance  it  came 
drowsily  in  undivided,  sweeping  softly  in  gurgling 
waves  and  ended  in  lines  of  downy  foam  upon  the 
beach. 

Seagulls,  with  their  feet  tucked  away  quite  out  of 
sight  among  their  soft  feathers,  balanced  themselves 
on  their  strong  white  wings,  sometimes  floating  low, 
alighting  on  the  beach  and  wading  into  the  surf. 

Behind  them  lav  the  cottages ;  and  for  a  background 
the  emerald  foothills,  and  the  curving  peaks,  and  the 
forest-crowned  tops  of  the  Coast  Eange. 

The  doctor  was  receiving  the  benefaction  of  rest 
gratefully.  Lying  in  dignified  languor  on  the  warm 
sand,    breathing    in    briny-flavored,  crispy,  wholesome 


86  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

air.  Behind  him  the  mountains,  before  him  the 
boundless  view  of  sea  and  sky.  The  sound  of  the 
ocean  subtly  thrilled  him,  and  he  felt  an  exaltation  in 
its  mystic  motion;  his  blood  flowed  stronger  again 
through  his  veins,  and  his  muscles  seemed  charged 
with  a  new  force. 

Tim  was  digging  trenches  in  the  sand  close  down  to 
the  tide;  Eags  was  with  him;  sometimes  lying  at  the 
edge  of  the  warm  water,  sometimes  assuming  an  atti- 
tude of  observation;  with  lolling  tongue  he  lay 
stretched  in  the  sand  at  Tim's  feet;  sometimes  the  dog 
assisted  him  with  wondrous  expenditures  of  energy,  and 
the  two  dug  by  turns.  At  times  they  stopped  to  study 
the  sea-onion  and  the  star-flsh  and  the  moss  and  the 
broken  shells  and  the  jelly-fish,  swept  in  by  the  tide. 
Later  Tim  gathered  wood  and  built  of  it  farther  up  on 
the  sand  a  little  town,  and  sometimes  he  had  to  wade 
into  the  surf  to  get  the  wood.  With  canine  reckless- 
ness, Eags  made  use  of  his  superabundant  energy  by 
swimming  far  out  into  the  surf,  struggling  there  with 
a  steadfastness  that  was  sublime,  till  he  got  hold  of  a 
piece  of  board;  then  floating  back  on  the  returning 
wave,  with  wide  dilated  eyes  came  slowly,  towing  it  in. 

The  doctor  lying  carelessly  with  his  arm  bent  and 
head  resting  upon  his  hand  had  been  watching  them. 

A  broad  wave  reaching  higher  up  the  beach  washed 
all  the  rude  buildings  of  their  board  city  away,  and 
after  they  had  seen  it  sailing  far  over  the  main,  the 
holiday  pair,  spending  no  time  in  useless  regret,  but 
still  hilarious  and  exuberant,  took  to  romping  up  and 
down  the  sand. 

The  old  pleasant  sense  of  seeing  the  boy  happy  came 
over  him  and  he  said  feelingly:  "This  is  the  first  child- 
hood the  little  fellow  ever  had."  The  freedom  and 
out-door  life  was  to  him  perfect,  and  presently  with 
an  air  of  absolute  content,  he  said:  "Ehoda,  in  this 
fresh,  delicious  air,  and  with  nothing  pressing  to  do, 
here's  our  opportunity  to  grow  young  again." 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  87 

In  a  low  chair  Ehoda,  who  was  sitting  under  the 
shade  of  the  umbrella,  engaged  industriously  in  knit- 
ting lace,  cast  her  eyes  up  and  down  the  beach  and 
said:  "Well,  it  may  be  right,  but  it  does  seem  strange 
to  me  to  see  so  many  grown-up  people  sitting  around 
idle,'-  and  she  tossed  the  thread  over  her  finger  again 
and  went  on  with  her  interrupted  work.  Though  she 
would  not  think  of  acknowledging  it,  through  the  doc- 
tor's ready  argument,  she  had  been  almost  convinced, 
a  time  or  two,  that  she  was  wrong.  It  was  plain  that 
she  did  not  speak  now  with  the  same  arrogance  as  of 
old. 

"We  sometimes  look  at  things  a  little  differently, 
Ehoda,"  the  doctor  said  with  a  smile.  "Now,  I've  been 
thinking  that  for  these  tired  people  to  come  out  here 
and  sit  down  with  folded  hands,  or  stretch  out  on  the 
sand  and  do  nothing  but  breathe  and  look  around  on 
the  sea  and  sky — I've  been  thinking  that  that's  the 
most  sensible  thing  they  can  do."  Under  his  half 
careless  words,  there  was  a  depth  of  meaning.  He  con- 
tinued: "Think  of  your  hard  life  and  John's;  steady 
work  and  endless  sacrifice  for  fifty  years,  until  when 
you  came  out  here  you  really  had  got  where  you 
thought  to  enjoy  yourself  was  a  sin.  You've  not  been 
fair  with  yourselves  bv  any  means." 

John,  urged  by  the  instinct  of  absolving  himself, 
said:  "But  you  see,  Jim,  I  had  always  thought  that 
you  had  to  make  a  steady  pull;  that  you  had  to  strain 
yourself  to  the  utmost;  "yo^^  see  I  didn't  know  there 
was  any  other  way." 

"John,  you  may  work  yourself  through  a  stone  wall, 
but  you've  lost  wind  in  the  struggle,"  his  brother  an- 
swered tersely.  "The  very  fact  that  we  rebel  against 
the  continued  strain,  and  that  we  grow  weary,  proves 
that  we  are  not  planned  for  endless  toil.  Still  men 
go  on  in  it,  until  life  becomes  insupportable."  Even 
here  breathing  in  the  sea's  freshness,  out  of  sight  of 
all  the  sorrow,  human  need  was  heavy  upon  the  man. 
He  continued:  "They  do  the  things  that  disorder  the 


88  4'S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

body,  dull  the  intellect,  smother  out  the  feeling, 
wither  the  soul;  they  toil  under  ground,  in  gloomy 
basements,  in  dark  offices,  in  holds  of  ships;  they  work 
in  malaria,  in  dust,  in  stone  filings,  among  disease 
germs,  and  with  all  our  boasted  education  they  toil 
stupidly  and  without  a  thought  of  the  body^s  needs. 
I  know  it  all  because  I  spend  my  life  helping  unthink- 
ing indiscreet  people  out  of  their  predicaments,  and 
still  all  the  time  I  know,"  he  added,  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  strong  conviction,  "that  suffering  and  depriva- 
tion are  not  God^s  plan."  Strong  and  well  and  full  of 
appreciation  for  the  larger  life  that  was  permitted  to 
him,  he  said  again:  "Here  we  are  far  asundered  from 
all  infection,  amid  such  surroundings,  and  in  such  air 
as  this,  one  might  easily  forget  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  disease  in  the  world,'^  but  it  was  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  measure  the  Creative  kindness,  that 
once  while  he  lay  there  he  said:  "How  Avholly  clean 
this  air  is!  It  is  ocean-washed,  wind-tossed,  rain- 
cleansed,  frost-touched,  dew-moistened,  sun-kissed  into 
wholesomeness  and  purity.  It  rushes  toward  needy 
lungs  with  slenderest  chance;  it  winds  along  intricate 
ways  and  creeps  through  smallest  crevices,  and  to 
think,"  he  said,  "that  with  all  this  lavish  sufficiency 
and  opulence  and  opportunity  for  receiving  it,  that 
men  starves  for  it,  until  he  goes  into  consumption ;  that 
he  stifles  and  smothers  in  cities  and  droops  by  stagnant 
water  and  pines  in  fever  reeking  marshes  and  chokes 
amongst  foul  gases  and  suffocates  amongst  noxious 
odors.  I  sometimes  wonder  that  we  are  even  satisfied 
immured  in  walls;  it  is,  at  best,  such  a  dismal  substi- 
tute for  real  life." 

Doyt^s  father  was  associated  in  her  mind,  not  only 
with  every  joy  of  her  life,  but  with  every  stage  in  the 
development  of  her  intellectual  faculties.  His  time 
was  pretty  well  occupied  usually  and  it  was  seldom  she 
iieard  him  speak  at  length.  She  was  always  eager  to 
gain  a  clearer  conception  of  the  character  of  his 
thought,  and  while  he  had  talked  she  had  lain  reclin- 


A   STORT  OF  CALIFORXIA   LIFE.  89 

mg  her  head  upon  Dorcas'  knee,  and  listening  with  a 
sort  of  wondering  homage. 

From  the  spiritual  element  in  which  he  had  always 
lived,  John  had  imhibed  the  belief  that  this  life  is  bnt 
a  pilgrimage,  and  having  once  started  on  the  journey, 
about  the  first  halting  place  was  the  other  world.  A 
moment's  silence  intervened  after  the  doctor  ceased 
speaking.  There  was  much  in  John's  mind,  but  look- 
ing gratefully  into  his  face,  all  he  said  in  reply  to  his 
brother's  words  was: /'I  think  I  understand  you,  Jim; 
I  know  myself  better  now;  you've  been  helping  me  to 
find  myself  out." 

A  solitary  crane  had  flown  down  and  was  stalking 
about  on  a  pair  of  irresolute  legs  in  the  shallow  water 
not  very  far  from,  where  they  sat.  As  they  watched'  it 
a  team  of  horses  and  a  carriage  went  spinning  along  on 
the  hard  sand  of  the  shore  and  frightened  it,  it  spread 
its  wings  and  flew  away.  Later  a  bevy  of  curlew 
alighted  upon  the  shore.  They  saw  them  standing, 
drop  their  wings  tardily,  then  come  hastilv  along  the 
sand  and  run  into  the  water.  They  saw  them  return 
to  the  shore  with  each  incoming  wave,  then  daintily 
whirling  about  and  picking  up  bits  of  food  as  th. 
went,   follow  it  again  as  it  receded. 

Boreas  alwa3^s  spoke  as  though  the  highest  avocation 
in  life  was  the  encouragement  of  common  sense.  Just 
now  she  felt  vividly  the  tranquil  sweetness  of  the  after- 
noon and  the  pleasure  of  being  in  her  brother's  com- 
pany, without  the  usual  fear  of  his  being  called  away. 
Her  comely  face  wore  an  air  of  ineffable  satisfaction. 
Presently  looking  toward  her  sister-in-law  she  said 
warily : 

"Couldn't  you  be  persuaded,  Ehoda,  to  lay  aside  that 
knitting  work  of  yours  a  little  while?  I'd  like  to  have 
vou  learn  for  once,  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  be 
iazy." 

Ehoda  looked  over  her  glasses  in  blank  wonderment. 

"Dorcas  Harding!"  she  said  sharply,  "I'd  never 
know  you,  you've  grown  so  different;  I'm  .sure  you 
yourself  used  to  knit  when  you  were  back  east." 


90  ^8  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"Yes,"  laughed  Dorcas,  "but  that  was  when  we  used 
to  have  to  sit  around  the  fire  in  the  long  evenings,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  see;  here  it's  different- — here 
we've  got  something  to  look  at."  Then  like  one  seek- 
ing excuse  for  a  heresy,  she  added:  "Because  we  had  to 
scrape  persistently  in  early  life  just  to  get  subsistence, 
that's  no  sign  that  we  must  follow  up  the  habit  until 
we  die." 

Ehoda  dropped  her  work  and  looked  out  over  the  sea, 
but  magnificent  as  the  view  was,  it  did  not  entertain 
her  long,  and  soon  she  resumed  the  wearisome  routine 
of  counting  stitches  again. 

"Your  wise  remark,  Dorcas,  shows  that  you've  taken 
time  to  think.  I  tell  you,  it  is  the  lazily  leisure  people 
who  are  the  philosophers,"  was  the  doctor's  rejoinder. 
"I  think  we  do  well  when  we  smooth  down  all  our  hard 
modes  of  life.  Indeed,  I  am  so  far  from  believing  in 
penance,  1  think  we  do  the  Creator  the  most  honor  pos- 
sible when  we  take  full-hearted  pleasure  in  being 
alive."  And  so  the  conversation  went  on,  the  doctor 
once  having  the  daring  to  say:  "And  then  when  people 
do  rest,  they  are  resting  from  what?  Watching  for 
gain:  to  get  the  advantage  of  some  one;  to  slip  into 
somebody  else's  place;  to  invent  something  which  had 
never  been  invented;  to  build  something  which  is  torn 
do^\Ti  next  year.  Whv,  half  the  things  that  we  wear 
out  our  cerebral  machinery  for  and  exert  our  capaci- 
ties to  accomplish,  would  better  not  be  done  at  all"; 
and  then  Dorcas  replied:  "People  work,  I  have  found, 
not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  accomplishing  something, 
as  to  give  vent  to  the  ant-like  energy  in  their  composi- 
tion; and  I  think,  too,  it  is  a  good  deal  the  result  of  the 
conceit  of  the  individual.  A  man  makes  superhuman 
effort,  because,  from  his  way  of  looking  at  things,  it  all 
devolves  upon  him,  like  an  Atlas.  He  loads  himself 
down  with  the  whole  weight  of  the  world;  then  bo 
thinks  he's  got  to  put  out  all  his  strength,  and  every 
minute  of  time  to  keep  it  moving."  She  added  dryly 
and  with  a  careless  toss  of  the  head:  "After  awhile  he 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  91 

dies,  and  then  without  the  least  assistance  from  him 
who  thouo-lit  he  carried  it  all,  everything  goes  on  just 
the  same." 

With  dignified  persistence  Dorcas  held  to  her  theme. 
"It  is  a  mistake,"  she  said,  "to  think  that  lack  of  occu- 
pation is  always  indolence.  You've  got  to  take  time  to 
look  around  you  and  make  use  of  the  things  given  you. 
I  cannot  believe  now  that  God  would  have  made  all 
these  grand  things — this  sea  and  these  hills,  and  this 
blue  sky,  without  He  expected  us  to  stop  and  look  at 
them,  and  then  it  is  strange  that  the  Creator  should 
take  such  pains  with  our  bodies  and  provide  them  with 
such  surroundings  and  make  us  capable  of  happiness, 
if  after  all  we  are  never  to  be  happy." 

John  had  been  idly  sifting  the  sand  through  his  fin- 
gers; shaking  it  from  his  hands  now  and  rubbing  them 
together,  he  said  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  studied 
the  matter:  "The  way  it  seems  to  me,  they're  all  look- 
ing to  riches  for  happiness." 

"For  the  best  of  all  reasons,  it  is  the  alternative  to 
which  they  are  forced,"  his  brother  said  regretfully. 
"Modern  civilization  has  made  the  burden  of  keeping 
soul  and  body  together  so  heavy,  that  everybody  is  busy 
trying  to  throw  it  over  on  somebody's  shoulders.  We 
do  not  look  for  happiness  for  either  ourselves  or  our 
children;  the  most  we  do  hope  for,"  he  continued  sadly, 
"is  to  modify  their  lot;  leave  them  money,  put  them 
in  possession  of  a  profession  or  a  trade  to  make  life 
easier  and  give  them  advantage  over  others." 

Ehoda  had  been  quiet  for  a  long  time  but  now  she 
spoke:  "You  acknowledge  that  we  cannot  always  be 
happy,  and  don't  you  think  now,  James,  that  people 
who  are  in  trouble  are  nearer  to  God?" 

"Nearer  to  Him,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  "in  that 
they  feel  strong  within  them  the  need  of  Divine  love. 
I  cannot  feel  the  idea  is  worthy  of  God." 

He  sat  upright  now  and  seemed  to  be  looking  out  at 
a  ship  that  was  just  coming  into  sight  far  away  at  the 
sky  line;  but  his  brain  was  still  busy,  and  presently  he 


93  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

said  as  though  deeply  touched  hv  the  thought:  ''When 
we  set  out  a  plant  now,  though  we  did  not  create  it, 
does  it  give  us  finite  people  more  pleasure  to  see  it 
pine  and  droop  and  wilt,  scorched  by  drought,  or 
storm-beaten  or  frozen,  grow  dwarfed  and  knotted,  or 
to  see  it  take  hold  of  the  soil  and  healthfully  sprout 
and  stalk  and  drink  in  the  sunshine  and  spread  out  and 
grow?  We  could  not  possibly  get  any  sort  of  satisfac- 
tion out  of  any  plant  or  animal  that  is  puny,  sickly,  or 
deformed.  Xo,  1  cannot  believe,^^  he  concluded  with 
generous  zeal,  "that  the  Divine  mind,  capable  as  it  is 
of  perfect  design,  would  find  satisfaction  in  any  other 
than  perfect  development." 


1    HTORY   OF   CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  93 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

AVhile  they  talked,  looking  far  out  over  the  waves, 
they  saw  a  skiff  Avith  white  sails  moving  smoothly  over 
the  water  toward  the  shore.  Two  yoimg  men  were  in 
the  boat,  and  as  they  neared  the  land,  they  lowered  the 
sail,  and  two  pair  of  brawny  arms  took  np  the  oars. 
The  little  vessel  plunged  through  the  breakers  and 
when  at  length  it  ran  aground,  the  rowers  leaped 
lightly  out;  with  seeming  exultation  of  strength,  they 
pulled  it  up  out  of  the  water,  and  with  sprightly  steps 
came  toward  the  spot  where  our  party  was  seated. 

Dr.  Harding,  in  company  with  his  daughter  and 
brother,  had  met  the  young  men,  and  had  held  a  con- 
versation with  them  two  or  three  evenings  before,  when 
just  at  the  verge  of  the  twilight  down  close  by  the  sea 
they  together  had  been  watching  some  fishermen  cast- 
ing their  nets. 

George  Moulton  was  the  taller  of  the  two;  a  young 
man  with  broad  brow  and  even  features,  well  devel- 
oped, firm  and  straight,  graceful,  self-possessed, 
sprightly,  wiry.  For  some  three  years  now  he  had 
])een  engaged  with  his  father  in  active  business  at  the 
metropolis. 

The  young  man  accompanying  him,  Lowell  Living- 
ston by  name,  was  a  student  of  the  medical  depart- 
ment of  the  University.  He  was  a  trifle  shorter  and 
somewhat  stronger  built.  He  had  a  handsome,  intel- 
lectual, fresh-colored,  more  boyish  face,  soft,  waving 
brown  hair,  a  well-shaped  mouth,  and  full,  ripe  lips, 
and  a  manner  of  moving  which  showed  every  muscle 
to  be  in  training. 

,  The  two  were  cousins.  Though  not  of  common 
mold,  they  both  demonstrated  the  fact  that  one  can 
live  even  in  the  city  and  not  become  enervated;  for 
each  possessed  a  splendid  physique. 


94  ^/Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

Dr.  Harding  arose  as  they  approached  and  greeted 
them  with  a  gallant  heartiness,  peculiar  to  himself. 

The  young  lady,  with  her  usual  refreshing  lack  of 
affectation  and  seemingly  with  no  more  embarrassment 
than  a  boy  would  have  shown,  with  airy  ease  crept  to 
her  feet  and  made  frank  acknowledgment  of  her  ac- 
quaintance with  them.  George  was  a  fluent  speaker. 
Standing  nearest  to  Doyt  and  taking  a  step  forward, 
he  said  gallantly: 

"I  expected  to  have  been  allowed  to  assist  you." 
Bowing,  he  added,  "Permit  me  to  express  to  you  my 
disappointment.'^  The  soft,  lustrous  blue  eyes  sought 
the  face  of  the  speaker.  She  stood  confusedly  for  a 
moment;  then  the  pretty  lips  parted.  Ignoring  the  in- 
tended compliment,  with  gay  surprise,  she  repeated  the 
word  interrogatively: 

"Disappointment,  Mr.  Moulton!  You  certainly  do 
not  mean  that  you  are  disappointed  that  1  am  not 
feeble  or  paralyzed,  for  so  I  must  have  been  to  have 
needed  your  help. 

Then  she  added  naively,  as  she  placed  her  foot  firmly 
on  the  sand,  "Not  needing  help,  I  should  be  hypo- 
critical to  accept  it." 

It  was  the  young  caller's  turn  to  show  surprise.  For 
once  in  his  life,  George,  skilled  in  the  use  of  words  as 
he  was,  felt  that  he  had  said  the  wrong  thing;  and  that 
he  had  not  made  exactly  the  pleasant  impression  that 
he  had  intended.  He  felt  somewhat  irritated,  per- 
haps, mostly  because  his  companion  had  overheard 
what  had  passed,  but  at  the  same  time  was  conscious 
of  a  freshened  interest  and  attraction.  One  sentence 
from  the  young  girl  there  before  him  had  opened  up 
his  brain  to  a  new  light.  He  saw  among  other  things 
that  there  was  something  in  his  new  acquaintance  to 
admire,  perhaps  even  more  than  her  wondrous  beauty. 
Eallying  his  wits,  he  said,  apologetically: 

"I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Harding,  I  see 
I  have  made  a  mistake."  He  continued  affably, 
"Trained  to  it  by  the  customs  of  society  in  general. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  95 

I  see  now  that  1  have  been  stupidly  making  of  myself 
a  sort  of  Don  Quixote,  and  imagining  that,  without  ex- 
ception, every  young  lady  1  meet  is  in  need  of  aid." 
Bowing  graciously  again,*  he  added:  ''I  am  happy  to 
know  that  I  have ''at  last  met  one  who  is  perfect  in  her- 
self." 

John  and  Dorcas  being  presented  by  her  brother, 
had  spoken  with  the  new  comers,  and  Rhoda  without 
rising,  sat  looking  up  through  her  glasses  from  her  low 
seat.  '  After  surveying  in  a  bewildered  way  their  bright 
faces  and  athletic' forms,  she  hastily  nodded  her  head, 
and  then  with  eagerness  resumed  her  knitting,  pa- 
tiently counting  the  stitches  as  she  took  them  from  one 
needle  to  the  other. 

Doyt  had  studied  the  expression  of  the  speaker's 
face,  and  as  it  seemed  at  the  moment  to  be  stamped 
with  sincerity  she  took  what  he  said  to  be  no  more 
than  a  concurrence  in  the  fact,  that  she  was  perfect  in 
health  and  strength,  and  able  to  keep  herself  just  as 
God  intended  she  should  be.  The  disturbed  look  left 
her  face. 

The  doctor's  eyes  had  been  resting  upon  the  face  of 
the  vouugster,  and  he  said  cordially:  "You  see  we  have 
pitched  our  tent;  will  you  allow  me  to  extend  to  you 
its  hospitality?" 

And  so  the  two  young  men  took  seats  among  them 
and  became  a  part  of  the  family  group  there  in  the 
afternoon  calm;  in  the  bright  golden  sunshine  by  the 
side  of  the  tossing  sea;  the  screaming  seagulls  sweep- 
ing by,  and  the  great  white,  fleecy  clouds  rising  in 
heroic  outline  in  the  west. 

There  is  no  other  profession  so  progressive  and  al- 
ways so  intensely  new  and  interesting  as  the  profession 
of  medicine,  and  between  Dr.  Harding  and  the  younger 
man  the  conversation  quickly  turned  to  the  subject 
fascinating  to  both. 

The  doctor  had  said  to  Lowell  appreciatively:  "I 
know  that  to  yoil  the  unrestrained,  natural  life  here 
and    the  unbroken    monotony    of  the    days,  must  be 


96  ^»S'  GOD  3IADE  HER. 

charming,  accustomed  as  you  are  to  the  consolidation 
of  your  forces  and  the  devotion  to  study,  wliich  your 
position  demands/^ 

At  first  sight  the  student  liad  been  impressed  with 
the  superb  dignity  of  tlie  man;  and  now,  as  he  began 
talking  on  a  theme  in  which  he  had  such  interest,  his 
large  j)ersonality  soon  made  itself  manifest.  The  doc- 
tor was  always  ready  for  better  ways,  and  on  the  alert 
for  new  discoveries.  All  late  publications,  scientific 
reports,  the  work  of  colleges,  all  private  investigation, 
was  hailed  by  him  with  pleasure;  and  received  closest 
study  and  attention.  He  Avas  ardent  and  incessant  in 
his  desire  to  enlarge  human  opportunity,  and  to  help 
his  people  out  of  their  unhappy  conditions,  by  the  most 
effective  methods. 

Once  Avhen  his  brother  had  asked  him,  "Why  is  it, 
James,  that  you  are  always  making  investigations?" 
he  had  answered  the  question  with  readiness,  "I  will 
tell  you  honestl}',  John,  it  is  because  the  feeling  so 
often  comes  over  me,  that  I  am  a  fraud.  No,  don't  ob- 
ject, John,  fraud  is  the  word,"  he  said,  as  his  brother 
attempted  to  utter  a  protest.  "Look  here,  now,^'  he 
we  at  on  disparagingly:  "I  have  set  myself  up  as  a 
healer  of  disease;  my  people  trust  me.  Now,  with  all 
my  enlightenment,  with  making  use  of  the  best,  as  far 
as  1  can  learn  it,  that  medical  science  offers,  I  grapple 
witli  some  of  the  common  diseases^— pneumonia,  ty- 
phoid, Bright's,  rheumatism,  sciatica,  tri-facial,  neu- 
ralgia, and  other  maladies — with  but  indiff'erent  suc- 
cess. In  all  the  materia  medica  there  are  but  a  few 
specifics ;  and  while  I  make  a  pretense  to  cure,  I  stand 
in  ])erfeet  helplessness  and  see  one  out  of  every  five  of 
my  fellow  beings  waste  with  consumption  or  rot  with 
cancer.  I  tell  you,  John,  we  medical  people  have  got 
to  wait  for  the  time  when  we  begin  to  cure  the  incur- 
ables; before  we  can  either  be  satisfied  with  ourselves 
or- justly  take  a  proper  pride  in  our  profession."  , 

The  evening  was  more  brilliantly  beautiful  than 
usual;  under  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  the  beach 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  97 

stretched  long  and  white.  Mingled  with  roaring, 
frothing,  tumbling  waves,  was  the  sound  of  voices  and 
the  laugh  of  little  children;  while  from  one  of  the  cot- 
tages, quaintly,  flexibly,  delicate,  came  the  tones  of  a 
violin.  Away  out  on  the  clear  calm  blue,  through  the 
white  mist,  steamed  a  little  tug.  An  ocean  liner  came 
bearing  do^\Ti  upon  it,  and  from  its  tiny  pilot  house  the 
captain  blew  two  whistles.  The  great  thing  a  thou- 
sand times  as  large,  seemed  to  regard  the  little  craft  as 
worth  attention  and  answered  the  salute. 

As  they  talked  together  the  setting  sun  made  a  long, 
wide  path  in  the  water,  which  trembled  -^^^ 
and  shimmered;  bordered  on  either  side  by  the  lustrous 
blue,  and  the  sky  that  bent  above  it,  took  up  the  tinted 
glory,  and  reflected  a  thousand  shades  of  blue  and  gray, 
and  red  and  yellow.  Slowly  and  gradually,  as  they 
watched,  the  great  ball  sunk,  until  there  appeared  only 
a  hemisphere  of  red,  then  majestically  went  from 
sight,  and  left  the  western  sky  a  livid  mass  of  fire  and 
silver  and  gold.  In  a  little  time  a  shadowy  mist  had 
arisen,  and  almost  imperceptibly,  the  splendid  glare 
and  glory  was  dying  out  in  the  west.  The  great 
fluffy  clouds,  silver  tinged,  disjoined,  changed 
shapes  tumbled  together  and  crumbled  away.  The 
dazzling  vermillion  slowly  melted  and  left  broad  lines 
of  soft  unsullied  pinkness;  while  on  either  side,  weirdly 
intermingled,  were  pallid  strips  of  green  and  dusky 
films  of  purple,  and  tender  tints  of  blue;  and  below  all, 
broad  bands  of  yellow  and  gray.  At  the  sky  line  the 
sea  took  up  all  the  fluctuating  wavering  shades  of  sub- 
dued color,  and  repeated  them.  As  they  watched,  the 
lines  became  indefinite;  the  colors  mixed  and  lost  their 
tintings,  and  paled  away  into  a  dull  grayness;  and  be- 
fore the  company  parted,  the  grayness  grew  heavier  and 
thicker  and  darker,  till  all  over  the  wide  expanse  of  sea 
and  sky,  tranquil,  reposeful  night  had  vanquished 
every  trace  of  the  lavish,  lustrous  glory. 
7 


98  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  next  evening  brought  the  two  young  men  down 
to  the  beach  in  front  of  the  cottage. 

They  had  all  been  out  together  during  the  day 
strolling  through  the  foothills  and  winding  up  the 
course  of  a  mountain  stream,  here,  and  there  resting 
upon  the  boulders,  and  watching  the  tiny  fish  gathered 
m  the  crystal  pools;  loitering  in  the  dewy  coolness  of 
the  waterfalls  and  under  the  arches  of  the  fern  leaves 
that  curved  above  their  heads;  the  air  mellow  with  bird 
song  and  scented  with  balsam  from  the  budding 
branches  of  the  coniferae. 

A  soft  fog  was  drifting  in  from  the  sea;  little  vessels 
were  gliding  along  over  the  peaceful  waves;  fishermen's 
boats  were  anchored  nearer  shore. 

Most  of  the  cottages  and  tents  were  vacant;  the 
people  outside  in  the  sunlight;  and  children  tripping 
along  gay  and  mirthful,  or  tumbling  about  in  the  soft 
warm  sand. 

The  sea,  changing  always,  had,  where  yesterday  was 
only  a  gradual  slope,  left  to-day  a  shelf  of  sand  some 
three  feet  in  height,  a  kind  of  sea-wall  at  the  edge  of 
the  water. 

The  progress  of  the  conversation  was  suddenly 
checked.  A  little  three-year-old  girl,  fluffy-haired  and 
chubbily  built,  came  bounding  along  with  others  in 
chase,  and,  blindly  venturing  perilously  near  the  edge 
of  the  wall,  toppled  and  fell  over. 

In  an  instant  the  retiring  wave  had  taken  the  baby 
out  to  where  a  huge  breaker  caught  her  and  rolled 
her  under  and  out  of  sight; 

Tim  and  "Eags"  were  not  far  away,  and  imme- 
diately "Eags''  plunged  in  and  took  the  same  direction, 
and  almost  in  an  instant  I^owell  had  divested  himself 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  99 

of  shoes  and  coat  and  followed.  When  he  had  passed 
the  first  low  breaker,  just  as  he  made  a  broad  side 
stroke  he  looked  back  and  he  saw  Doyt  standing  there 
near  w^here  he  had  plunged  in,  and  looking  earnestly 
and  wistfully  out  into  the  sea.  He  shut  his  teeth,  he 
steadied  his  nerves,  and  gathered  his  strength  with  the 
purpose  of  saving  the  child;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
if  the  task  he  had  undertaken  had  been  even  a  thou- 
sand times  more  perilous  than  it  was,  with  such  an  in- 
spiration behind  him,  he  could  have  accomplished  it. 

He  was  farther  out  now,  and  the  time  had  come  for 
the  lavish,  unstinted  expenditure  of  stored  up  force. 
He  had  learned  swimming  as  a  pastime,  practiced  it 
as  a  recreation,  but  contesting  often  the  strength  of 
the  waves,  his  firmly  constructed  muscles  had  become 
tense  and  hard,  and  prepared  him  now"  to  grapple 
against  tremendous  odds.  Those  who  stood  on  the 
shore  saw  him  lift  his  arms  and  throw  them  far  for- 
ward with  continuous  motion;  they  saw  him  face  the 
the  breaker;  saw  him  with  strong  strokes  cut  his  way 
determinedly  through  and  appear  again  struggling  in 
the  midst  of  the  white,  boiling,  surging  mass.  They 
saw  him  meet  the  heavy  swells  beyond,  with  knotted 
thews  and  everv'  fiber  strained  to  frenzied  exertion; 
and  then  they  saw  him  once  again,  the  water  unpitying 
and  relentless  rushing  forward  with  terrible  intensity, 
heaping  itself  upon  him  and  smothering  him  under. 
Strain  their  eyes  then  to  their  eager  limit,  not  a 
glimpse  was  to  be  caught  of  him  while  they  waited  in 
the  agony  of  uncertainty;  with  the  swimmer  now,  ex- 
penditure of  strength  was  carefully  made;  every  move- 
ment Avas  of  vital  interest;  every  stroke  had  bold 
meaning.  Strong  of  purpose,  confident  of  results 
against  all  hindrance,  all  obstruction,  he  sturdily 
forced  his  way  onward;  now  and  then  he  laid  a  hand 
encouragingly  upon  the  head  of  the  dog,  who,  with 
practical  sagacity,  kept  close  up  or  led  the  way.  As 
they  were  swept  nearer  the  child  in  the  strong  outward 
rush  of  the  water,  the  dog  caught  the  floating  skirt 


100  ^S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

of  the  dress,  and  Lowell  taking  firm  hold  of  the  little 
one,  struck  out  landward. 

Almost  without  breath  those  on  shore  waited. 
Their  eager  eyes  caught  sight  of  him  once  again. 
How  slowly  he  seemed  to  move  as  though  even  now  his 
strength  must  yield;  but  no,  the  force  that  impelled  his 
effort  was  strong.  The  water  seems  to  lift  him  up  a 
moment,  and  then  again  they  saw  that  with  the  one 
free  hand  he  had  caught  the  rope  that  had  been  thrown 
to  him  across  the  foaming  water.  The  gallant  effort 
had  not  been  made  in  vain,  and  even  before  his  feet 
touched  the  land,  Dorcas  and  Doyt,  went  up  to  the 
cottage  and  began  preparing  the  blankets. 

As  soon  as  Lowell  was  out  of  the  water,  the  doctor 
received  the  unconscious  child,  and  the  young  man 
stopping  only  a  moment  to  catch  breath  and  to  shake 
his  dripping  clothes,  was  by  the  doctor's  side,  and  mak- 
ing skilled  effort  for  the  restoration  of  the  wavering 
life. 

Not  until  the  babe  was  breathing  again  in  a  sweetly 
natural  way  and  was  snuglv  and  safely  wrapped  in 
blankets  did  he  seem  to  think  of  himself. 

Courteously  refusing  to  accept  the  dry  clothing  that 
was  offered  him,  and  gathering  together  his  own  scat- 
tered belongings,  he  bade  them  all  good-night,  and 
quickly  turned  away,  his  cousin  accompanying  him. 
He  started  out  with  his  usual  firm,  free  step,  and  in 
spite  of  the  tremendous  effort  he  had  made  did  not 
seem  exhausted. 

There  came  a  call  for  him  to  stop.  The  soft  eyes  of 
the  mother  of  the  babe  were  swimming  with  tears, 
as  with  voice  choked  with  emotion,  she  said  brokenly, 
yet  with  pathetic  earnestness: 

"Blest  be  forever  your  life.  You  have  done  for  our 
household  this  night  what  years  of  devotion  could 
never  pay.'' 

When  the  two  young  men  had  started  on  again,  the 
doctor  walked  by  their  side  for  a  few  hurried  steps, 
and  in  parting  from  them  said  to  Lowell: 


A   STORY   OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  IQl 

"Don't  be  iucliffercnt  in  regard  to  yourself.  Get 
into  dry  clothing  as  quickly  as  possible/' 

Looking  after  them  as  they  hurried  away,  he  called 
to  both:  "We  shall  bp  glad  to  see  you  again  to-mor- 
row evening." 

Accepting  the  invitation,  Lowell  for  a  moment 
halted  as  though  he  intended  to  speak,  then  bidding 
Dr.  Harding  good-night,  he  and  George  walked  on. 
Not  much  was  said  between  them.  All  the  way  Lowell 
was  thinking:  "Is  it  possible  that  I  shall  see  her  again 
to-morrow,  perhaps  again  the  next  day?"  Then  he 
said  quietly  to  himself,  "I  would  have  swam  the  sea 
for  such  a  privilege." 

That  night  when  he  had  gone  to  his  room,  he 
thought  not  even  of  his  struggle  with  the  sea,  but  of 
the  cottage  where  she  stayed,  of  the  dainty  rooms,  of 
the  little  porch  with  the  vines  climbing  over  it;  but 
most  he  thought  of  the  lovely  picture  she  made  stand- 
ing there  amid  the  soft  evening  mists  of  the  beach;  of 
the  organism  without  a  discord,  of  the  youth  and  the 
rich  life  and  force  that  was  in  her  veins;  so  sound,  so 
graceful,  so  free,  so  bright,  so  happy,  she  seemed  to 
him  out  of  place  here — a  creation  of  some  happier 
world. 


;^02  ^'^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  following  evening  the  shadows  were  long  and 
slanting,  the  great  red  sun  low  down  in  the  sky  when 
Lowell,  gay  of  heart,  came  down  the  steps  of  the  hotel 
and  walked  away  along  the  beach.  He  had  looked 
for  his  cousin  to  go  with  him,  and  was  surprised  that 
he  could  not  readily  find  him.  If  George  had  not  in- 
tended accompanying  him,  he  had  expected  him  at 
least  to  tell  him  so,  still  it  seemed  to  hmi  odd  that 
he  should  not  have  desired  to  go.  He  walked  on 
rather  slowly,  expecting  at  every  step  to  hear  George 
coming  behind  and  calling  to  him;  and  when  he 
had  passed  the  line  of  tents  and  had  come  to  the 
first  white  cottage,  tnough  he  was  still  some  dis- 
tance away  from  them,  he  recognized,  among  the  others 
on  the  beach,  the  people  he  had  come  to  meet:  and 
when  he  observed  more  closely,  he  saw  that  George  was 
with  them,  and  that  he  and  Miss  Harding  were  walking 
slowly  along  near  to  the  waves  and  chatting  carelessly 
together. 

Lowell's  step  slackened  and  a  pang  of  disappoint- 
ment shot  through  him. 

^•Qh,  that's  his  game,  is  it?"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
wondered  about  his  not  being  eager  to  accompany  me. 
I  wondered  last  night  about  his  not  saying  anything 
about  coming.  I  see  why  he  was  silent  on  the  subject 
now.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  George,  though," 
he  said  after  a  pause. 

Just  at  this  moment  ^^Rags,"  looking  more  than  or- 
dinarily jubilant  and  handsome,  his  collar  decorated 
with  a  bow  of  broad  blue  ribbon,  which  made  a  beau- 
tiful contrast  with  the  color  nature  gave  him,  came 
hustling  through  the  sand  and  with  eagerness  rushed 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  103 

upon  him.  Lowell  stooped  and  patted  the  brown  in- 
telligent head,  and  the  dog  lay  down  in  the  sand  and 
licked  the  hand  extended  to  him.  Presently  ''Kags" 
bustled  away  again,  and  barking  loudly,  went  back  to 
the  others.  Lowell  followed.  As  he  came  closer  Dr. 
Harding  greeted  him  with  heartiness  and  Doyt  was  the 
next,  leaving  George's  side,  to  step  away  from  the 
others  and  with  swift  movement  to  come  smiling  for- 
ward, extending  both  her  hands. 

There  she  stood  before  him  again  in  her  rare  loveli- 
ness, exquisitely  formed,  of  charming  manners,  fair- 
browed  and  round  cheeked  and  dimpled,  her  liquid 
eyes  upturned  to  his,  and  for  an  instant  her  soft  slen- 
der white  hands  clasping  his  own. 

Since  he  first  met  her  he  had  been  satisfied  to  stand 
afar  and  look  upon  her  with  reverent  admiration;  he 
regarded  her  as  something  to  be  looked  at  only,  beau- 
tiful beyond  expression,  sweetly  attractive,  yet  alto- 
gether unattainable. 

A  queen  might  have  descended  from  her  throne  to 
speak  to  him,  and  he  would  not  have  felt  so  honored; 
it  was  to  him  as  though  an  angel  from  the  Heaven 
above  had  stooped  to  take  him  by  the  hand;  and  it  was 
by  reason  of  this  feeling,  that  he  stood  there,  grand  in 
his  youthful  manliness, his  wondering  eyes  resting  upon 
her  but  for  the  moment  without  speech. 

It  was  Doyt  who  first  spoke:  "We  have  been  uneasy 
about  you,"  she  said,  as  though  there  had  been  some- 
thing lacking  in  their  hospitality.  "We  are  glad  to 
see  you  uninjured."  Even  George  noticed  that  her 
voice  was  a  little  unsteady  as  she  added,  "I  assure  you 
we  were  too  careless;  we  are  not  going  to  permit  you  to 
imperil  your  life  again  to-night." 

He  listened  to  her  words,  wondering  if  it  could  be 
that  he  heard  aright;  that  even  his  risking  being 
drowned  was  a  thing  of  interest  to  her;  to  her  from 
whom  he  had  considered  himself  so  far  separated,  that 
sympathy  could  not  extend  across  the  infinite  space 
that  lay  between  them. 


104  ^^.S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

He  answered  lier:  "I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart 
for  your  kindly  solicitude.  I  am  in  no  way  injured, 
as  you  see;  besides,  I  am  in  the  surf  every  day.  I  as- 
sure you  I  incurred  no  danger  because  there's  nothing 
new  in  it/'  he  continued  carelessly. 

^'You  demonstrated  that  fact — that  is,  that  like  the 
stormy  petrel  you  are  at  home  even  in  the  roughest 
sea;  that  was  plain  by  the  way  you  moved  through  the 
stout  breakers.  Still  there  is  something  new  in  your 
action  of  last  evening,'^  she  added  in  a  low^er  voice, 
and  the  blue  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears  now,  "for 
to-night,  there's  a  cottage  up  yonder  where  the  highest 
earthly  thankfulness  and  happiness  holds,  where  but 
for  your  heroic  effort  would  have  been  but  broken  deso- 
lation." 

Dorcas,  who  had  been  surveying  the  young  fellow 
with  rapt  admiration,  said:  "You  went  away  so  quick- 
ly last  night  we  had  no  opportunity  to  congratulate 
you,  but  the  feeling  among  u,«  is  general.  .  We  have  all 
longed  to  tell  you  how  highly  Ve  regarded  the  valiant 
and  successful  effort  that  you  made." 

At  this  time  "Eags,"  as  though  he  had  participation 
in  the  general  feeling,  came  and  crouched  at  Lowell's 
feet  again,  making  sentimental  demonstration  of  re- 
gard, and  Lowell,  acknowledging  his  devotion,  said 
concernedly:  "Look  here,  if  there  be  any  honor  in  this 
thing,  ^Eags'  should  have  the  greater  share  in  it.  He 
was  the  first  to  plunge  into  the  sea.  He  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  daring.  I  assure  you  he  went  ahead 
and  it  was  he  that  caught  first  the  dress  of  the  child." 

Lowell's  manner  showed  plainly  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  escape  the  attention  paid  him.  He  went  on  as 
though  a  gratifying  idea  had  struck  him:  "That's  what 
they  are  training  us  for  at  the  college,  doctor,"  he  said, 
"to  save  human  life.  I  am  glad  I  have  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  begin."  He  continued  with  a  laugh,  "I  sup- 
pose I  am  fortunate  in  that  I  am  credited  already  with 
the  saving  of  human  life  instead  of  the  taking  of  it. 
'^Eags'  and  I  swam  for  a  prize,"  he  said  presently,  pat- 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  105 

ting  the  dog  on  the  head,  "'and  we  captured  it.^_  We 
are  both  at  home  in  the  sea,  aren't  we,  'Rags'?" 

The  young  man  looked  out  from  a  pair  of  steady, 
beaming  eyes;  there  was  a  fine  curl  of  the  lip;  it  was 
altogether" such  a  pleasant,  boyish  face  to  look  upon 
as  he  talked.  He  drew  up  his  excellently  molded  form 
and  a  feeling  of  youth's  faith  in  itself  could  be  traced 
in  the  gesture,  as  he  continued:  "Keally,  I  love  to  face 
the  breakers,  and  I  find  in  swimming  only  the  natural 
use  of  my  strength,  and  besides  that  the  very  keenest 
pleasure.  I  never  think  of  danger,"  he  added  confi- 
dently, as  though  the  only  idea  was  a  surprise.  "I 
really  have  never  felt  as  though  I  could  be  drowned." 

Wiiat  the  doctor  thought  was,  "There's  a  good,  gal- 
lant heart  in  the  boy."  What  he  said  was:  "Your  con- 
fidence, I  assure  you,  affords  us  all  a  feeling  of  security, 
for  while  we  remain  at  the  shore,  whatever  happens," 
he  added  smiling  approvingly,  "we  shall  know  that  the 
life-boat  is  always  near  and  ready  to  put  to  sea  at  any 
time," 


106  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEK  XXIY. 

It  was  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  a  mid-afternoon  a 
few  weeks  later,  that  Doyt  was  riding  down  the  mag- 
nificent roadway,  past  imposing  dwellings  and  gorgeous 
gardens,  and  between  the  long  rows  of  majestic,  an- 
cient trees  which  form  the  Alameda.  She  wore  a 
jaunty  suit  of  navy  blue,  simply  made,  and  suited  to 
her  picturesque  figure.  The  cap  was  white  and  about 
the  waist  was  tied  a  white  silken  scarf,  the  broad  ends 
of  which,  tassel  caught,  hung  at  her  side.  There  was 
little  change  to  be  noted  in  the  sweet,  radiant  face,  in 
its  white  brow,  dimpled  cheeks,  tender  lips,  its  child- 
like smile,  yet  in  the  weeks  that  had  passed  since  her 
return  home  from  the  sea  shore,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  had  begun  to  know  a  vague  disquietude; 
to  feel  that  in  the  world  about  her,  unchanged  as  it 
was  in  beauty  and  color,  there  was  some  sort  of  lack. 
She  was  as  active  as  ever,  and  spent  much  of  her  time 
out  of  doors;  to  all  appearances  as  blithely  happy,  but 
still  a  slight  inexplicable  shadow  seemed  to  have  come 
over  her  life,  and  h\  a  way  disturbed  its  peacefulness. 
N"ow,  as  she  rode  along  a  single  thought  pursued  her. 
She  was  involuntarily  thinking  of  the  things  the  young 
student  had  said:  and  though  she  was  annoyed  that  it 
was  so,  she  was  haunted  by  the  echo  of  his  voice. 

Presently  looking  up  she  saw  approaching  a  single 
rider;  and  as  they  came  nearer  together  she  recognized 
the  gallant  wheelman  as  George  Moulton.  He  rode 
nearer,  doffed  his  hat,  circled  about  and  came  up  by 
her  side. 

She  rode  the  wheel  with  indescribable  grace.  When 
she  spoke,  her  voice  was  so  adorably  soft,  her  parted 
lips  so  ripe  and  moist,  that  now  in  her  presence  he 
felt  again  the  same  subtle,  but  irrepressible  and  over- 


.1    STORY  OF  CALTFORXTA    LIFE.  107 

powering,  attraction  tliat  had  held  him  when  he  first 
saw  her;  the  willing  readiness  impelled  him  to  set 
aside  forever  all  other  aspirations  and  to  unwaveringly 
serve  her. 

George  was  strong  and  handsome;  he  was  a  young 
mnn  who  in  any  company  was  self-possessed  and  thor- 
oughly at  ease;  his  intellect  always  giving  him  domi- 
nation. 

To  Doyt,  after  their  acquaintance  at  the  sea,  it 
seemed  natural  that  they  should  be  friends  and  soon 
they  were  talking  together  on  terms  of  unconstrained 
intimacy.  He  paid  her  delicate,  respectful  homage,  his 
jiumners  were  pleasant  and  winning,  he  seemed  always 
filled  with  kind  thoughtfulness  for  her.  With  perfect 
honesty  he  said: 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  Since  we  left  the 
solitude  of  the  sea,  I  have  often  wondered  how  you 
have  been  occupied. '' 

As  they  rode  slowly  along,  she  raised  her  wistful 
blue  eyes  to  his.  "My  life  has  been  eventless,"  she 
said  unassumingly.  "I  read,  I  study,  I  help  Aunt 
Dorcas,  I  work  among  the  flowers.  1  think  I  like  that 
best  of  all  I  do;  they  are  so  beautiful,  so  wonderful," 
she  put  in  spontaneously,  and  returning  to  her  subject; 
"all  over  this  country  I  ride  with  my  father,  and  at 
times  alone.'' 

All  the  air  about  them  was  fragrant  with  the  flowers 
that  grew  in  luxuriant  richness  on  either  side  of  their 
pathway;  in  the  soft,  sweet,  quiet  day  they  rode  on 
together  through  the  leafy  shadows,  while  the  soft 
summer  clouds  floated  through  the  quiet  blue,  and  the 
birds  flitted  back  and  forth  and  made  music  in  the 
trees  above  them. 

They  talked  of  the  people  of  the  household,  and  oi 
the  tranqitilizing  days  at  the  seashore;  of  the  fair- 
haired  child  that  was  saved  from  the  yawning,  piti- 
less sea;  and  as  they  talked  they  stopped  their  wheels 
and  alighted  under  the  wide-spreading  arms  of  an  oak 
tree  which  stood  at  a  turn  of  the  road.  While  they 
sat  together  on  the  rustic  bench  George  continued: 


208  ^'^  ^OD  MADE  HER. 

"The  sea  is  always  attractive,  and  in  its  different 
phases  entirely  new  and  never  wearisome.  I  have 
often  turned  to  it  for  rest  and  relaxation.  Lowell 
and  I  have  been  accustomed  to  it  since  childhood;  but 
this  last  time  that  I  was  wont  to  visit  its  shore/'  he 
added  slowly,  "it  was  different  to  me.  I  found  in  it 
fresh  charm;  it  was  more  alluring  and  beguiling  than 
I  had  ever  known  it  before,  and  for  that  I  am  im- 
measurably indebted  to  the  company  which  it  was  my 
good  fortune  to  meet  there." 

Again  his  companion  studied  the  expression  of  his 
handsome  face,  and  then  ignoring  all  personality  in 
the  compliment,  with  complacent  composure,  she 
asked:  "You  have  seen  your  cousin?''  and  almost  in 
the  same  breath,  "Do  you  see  him  often?" 

George  waited  a  moment  to  reply,  then  answered 
with  seeming  carelessness:  ^'I  have  seen  my  noble 
cousin,  yes;  I  saw  him  yesterday.  I  do  not  see  him 
often,  only  occasionally — for  the  reason  that  he  is  a 
student;  his  time  is  monopolized." 

As  she  did  not  speak  at  once,  he  continued:  "Lowell 
gives  his  time  to  serious  work,  to  severe  study.  He 
may  not  have  so  impressed  you.  He  throws  off  the 
yoke  so  easily  that  outside,  perhaps  as  when  he  was 
down  at  the  sea,  he  appears  but  an  idler,  but  up  at  the 
college  they  tell  me  he  is  one  of  the  cleverest  of  his 
class.  I  think  people  expected  more  from  his  brother 
Lawrence,  who  is  now  completing  a  medical  course  in 
Europe,"  he  said  adroitly.  "Lowell  has  always  been 
so  careless  and  merry  that  we  never  thought  that  as  a 
student  he  would  excel." 

Doyt  was  silent.  Perhaps  even  if  she  had  wished 
to  prolong  the  conversation  she  would  not  have  well 
known  how  to  do  so. 

George,  of  his  own  free  will,  continued  in  an  ex- 
planatory way:  "He  gives  all  his  time  to  study  now; 
he  is  under  a  sort  of  slavery.  Until  he  is  through 
with  his  medical  course  he  will  hardly  belong  to  the 
world.     He  will  not  leave  the  city  again  probably  be- 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  109 

fore  the  close  of  the  term.  Let  me  see,"  he  added 
gravely  and  studying  a  minute,  "that  will  be  some  three 
months  hence/^ 

"So  you  have  always  been  friends/^  she  said,  "you 
two?'' 

He  laughed  carelessly,  as  though  recalling  some  for- 
gotten epoch  of  existence,  then  answered  her  frankly: 
''We  have  hardly  been  friends,  always.  I  am  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  though  reared  together,  there  used 
to  exist  a  mild  sort  of  enmity  between  us  in  boyhood, 
but  of  late  years  we  have  gradually  grown  to  better 
feeling." 

She  thought  a  moment;  presently  she  asked  him: 
"And  so  your  cousin  will  be  satisfied  if  he  stands  at 
the  head  of  the  list,  will  he?'' 

From  her  standpoint  that  was  a  poor  ambition.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  foolish  thing  to  take  such  unending 
trouble  about. 

She  asked  again  doubtfully:  "And  is  he  contented 
with  that,  to  excel  all  the  others,  I  mean?"  'then  she 
added  quickly:  "Who  stands  ahead,  that  makes  no 
difference;  that  doesn't  benefit  the  world.  In  medical 
work,  it  is  what  men  do,  what  they  think  out  and  in- 
vent and  discover  by  study  to  help  people,  to  keep 
them  well,  or  to  bring  them  back  to  health,  or  to  con- 
quer incurable  diseases,  that  is  of  importance.  The 
other  is  only  ostentation  and  show.  I  do  not  believe 
that  Lowell  would  be  satisfied  with  that."  After  a 
little  time  she  spoke  again:  "To  study  what  you  want 
to  know,  that's  the  only  way  to  learn.  It  seems  to 
me  a  dreadful  hardship  to  study  after  you  have  lost 
your  hunger  for  it,"  she  said  in  a  sort  of  distressed 
way. 

George  was  weighing  the  significance  of  her  man- 
ner and  words.  "I  never  looked  at  it  in  that  way," 
he  acknowledged,  ^^out  you  are  always  suggesting  some- 
thing that's  new  to  me.  So  one  learns  I  never  thought 
it  made  much  difference  what  is  the  incentive." 


110  AyS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

A  little  later  he  looked  into  the  soft  blue  eyes: 
"And  so  you  pity  Lowell,''  he  said. 

"I  pity  him,  yes.  Xot  that  he  studies* — that  is  a 
privilege;  but  to  be  forced  to  do  it;  to  crowd  so  much 
study  into  so  little  time  and  to  crowd  out  just  for 
that/'  and  she  looked  all  about  her,  "just  for  that," 
she  repeated,  "to  crowd  out  all  the  happy  sunny  life." 

She  had  been  talking  with  great  earnestness,  and 
when  they  had  again  mounted  their  wheels,  he  accom- 
panying her  in  the  direction  of  home,  she  imagined 
that  George's  handsome  face  had  grown  slightly  pale. 

In  a  singularly  attractive  way,  he  said:  "  I  am  ready 
to  do  as  you  command  me  always,  but  may  I  ride  back 
to  the  house  with  you?''  he  added  entreatingly. 

She  looked  at  him  curiously:  "Why  surely  you  may, 
since  you  plead  so  humbly,"  she  said  with  a  merry 
laugh.  "The  folks  at  home  will  certainly  be  glad  to 
see  you." 

When  riding  quietly  along,  they  came  in  sight  of  Oak- 
lawn  and  turned  up  the  avenue.  He  looked  around  on 
the  trees,  the  velvety  greenness  of  the  sward,  the 
magnificent  glory  of  the  flowers,  and  came  in  view  of 
the  house  nestling  amongst  the  evergreens,  bedecked 
with  roses  and  bordered  by  blossoms  and  girdled  by 
orchards;  he  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  holding 
it  a  moment  in  his  hand  he  said  almost  reverently: 
"It  is  so  beautiful  here."  When  they  reached  the 
dwelling  they  found  that  Dr.  Harding  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived. 

Dorcas  met  them  at  the  veranda  and  when  she  saw 
the  stranger,  even  to  a  nature  as  unimpressible  as  hers, 
the  first  thought  was:  "How  handsome  he  is!"  When 
she  discovered  that  the  young  man  was  their  ac- 
quaintance of  the  seashore  she  received  him  with  a 
hospitality  befitting  her  own  benign  face,  but  looking 
around  a  moment  she  said  solicitously:  "Has  Lowell 
come?  No?  I  am  disappointed."  Hastily  she  added: 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Moulton,  I  meant  no  discour- 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  m 

tesy  to  3^ou.  From  impluse,  I  asked  for  him;  I  grew 
so  accustomed  to  seeing  you  two  together." 

They. sat  and  talked  together  under  the  shadow  of 
the  climbing  rose-bush  while  the  golden  evening  light 
fell  upon  tree  and  shrub  and  flower  and  sward,  then 
rising  and  bowing  in  a  low,  rich  voice,  George  said: 

"I  am  charmed  that  I  have  had  the  honor.  May 
I  come  again?" 

A  sweet  young  lady  rising  bowed  assent,  and  it  was 
Dorcas  who  said:  "Come  to-morrow  evening;  we  prom- 
ise ourselves  that  my  brother  will  be  at  home  then." 

Before  George  left  the  house  a  thin,  soft  mist  had 
come  insidiously  in  from  the  sea  and  settled  about  the 
grounds,  and  through  the  wavering  dimness  with 
manly  stride  he  wended  his  way  down  the  avenue. 


113  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

That  night  when  George  lay  back  upon  his  pillow 
his  gratification  at  having  been  admitted  to  Doyt's 
presence  again  was  not  accompanied  by  a  feeling  of 
perfect  security. 

The  quiet  of  the  night  was  unbroken  save  by  the 
sough  of  the  wind  among  the  trees;  once  only  the 
whistle  of  the  theater  train  from  the  city  fell  upon  the 
dead  silence^  and  once  the  midnight  crowing  of  fowls 
disturbed  the  stillness;  yet  sleep  did  not  come.  He  was 
haunted  by  the  one  thought:  "She  asked  after  Lowell; 
she  pities  Lowell.^^  In  the  darkness  of  the  night,  he 
reviewed  the  situation.  "Lowell  is  young,"  he  said  to 
himself,  reassuringly;  "he's  just  a  mere  chit  of  a  boy; 
adrift  and  doesn't  know  where  he  is  going  to  land. 
By  his  own  unaided  effort  he  has  yet  to  win  a  footing 
for  himself,  while  as  for  myself,  if  I  do  say  it,  I  am 
already  pretty  solidly  established.  For  all  this  differ- 
ence, though,  and  all  in  my  favor,  this  isn't  the  first 
time  he  has  mingled  inopportunely  with  my  plans," 
he  said  with  closed  lips.  "Xo  more  is  it  the  first  time 
that  I've  had  to  stand  aside  for  him,"  he  added  with 
bitterness. 

It  was  the  present  situation  that  overwhelmed  him. 
"I  never  cared  before;  that  is,  I  never  cared  much," 
he  said  to  himself.  "He  always  establishes  himself  in 
people's  good  graces;  it's  all  just  as  I  might  have  ex- 
pected, just  as  I  did  expect.  I  knew  when  I  first  met 
the  family  and  saw  the  rosebud  of  a  girl,  that  there 
would  be  some  outbreak  of  heroism  on  Lowell's  part; 
something  that  would  bring  all  his  good  qualities  into 
shining  prominence  at  once.  An  event  like  that  of  his 
plunging  headlong  into  the  sea  without  a  second's  de- 
lay, and  without  giving  anybody  else  a  chance,  an  in- 


A  IS  TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  113 

ciclent  like  that,  you  kno\\-/'  lie  repeated  to  himself, 
"goes  so  everlastingly  far  toAA^ard  putting  people  on 
terms  of  familiar  intimacy.  Then  he's  always  so 
hanged  lucky!"  he  said  again.  "In  fact  there's  a  kind 
of  fortune  that  follows  the  fellow  that  it  seems  he  can- 
not escape  from.  If  I  had  jumped  into  the  waves  un- 
dauntedly and  with  the  same  promptitude  and  agility 
that  he  showed,  as  a  reward  for  my  foolhardiness,  I 
should  prohably  he  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  now,  and 
the  unfortunate  baby  along  with  me.  I  would  have 
given  half  my  income  to  have  been  brought  into  some 
sort  of  eligible  eminence  with  those  people,  but  he 
saved  the  child,  as  luck  would  have  it,  while  I,  in  dumb 
debility,  looked  on.  Then  he  was  the  one  who  won 
the  respect  and  admiration  of  all  by  acting  with 
promptitude  and  skill  afterward.  He  knew  exactly 
what  to  do  after  he  brought  the  drowning  child  out 
of  the  water,  while  even  then  I  only  stupidly  blun- 
dered around  in  the  way."  He  went  on  enumerating 
his  cousin's  rightful  claim;  then,  how  he  attracted  their 
regard,  he  said,  by  modestly  disclaiming  all  merit  for 
the  deed,  and  how  they  heaped  gratitude  and  glory 
upon  him  while  all  this  time  I  remained  insignificant 
and  obscure." 

Trying  in  vain  to  sleep  and  thinking  steadily  he 
persisted  in  his  own  persecution.  He  said  generously: 
"Lowell  converses  excellently  well  on  medical  topics; 
a  talent  that  found  cordial  recognition  from  the  doc- 
tor. It  stood  me  in  hand,"  he  added  ruminatively, 
"to  consecrate  myself  to  anatomy  and  physiology.  I 
never  liked  it,  but  I  wish  I  had  only  known,  I'd  have 
conquered  my  repugnance,  and  have  taken  to  it,  and 
have  held  on  no  matter  what  it  cost.  But  hang  it  all," 
he  said  again,  thinking  steadily  a  moment,  "that  is 
julst  where  a  proof  of  my  ill  fortune  looms  up  con- 
spicuously again.  If  I  had  given  my  life  to  the  serious 
study  of  bones,  then  the  girl's  father  would  have  been 
sure  to  have  been  a  lawyer  or  a  preacher  perhaps,  and 
I  should  have  been,  as  unentertaining  to  him,  as  I  was 
8 


;l  14  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

the  other  day,  when  I  stood  in  inarticulate  helpless 
ness.  awed  by  Lowell's  striking  eloquence." 

Struggling  with  himself  and  still  making  an  effort 
to  be  just  he  said  again,  contemplatively:  "Lowell  ad- 
mires her;  that's  certain;  he's  no  fool;  that's  Avhere 
the  trouble  lies;  he  has  sufficient  discernment  to  put 
upon  her  something  like  a  proper  estimate.  More 
than  that,"  he  added  excitedly,  "he  thinks  that  God 
never  made  anything  else  like  her.  But  then,"  he  con- 
tinued seeking  consolation  for  himself,  "Lowell  has 
other  subjects  that  occupy  him.  His  mind  is  divided;  he 
has  his  profession,  that  engrosses  him;  he  makes  medi- 
cal researches,  he  follows  clues.  I  have  no  other  mind, 
no  other  thought,  no  other  object,"  and  he  shrunk  in 
agony  at  the  vacuity  of  the  world  as  it  appeared  to  him 
in  prospect.  Here  followed  another  reverie:  "What  can 
that  boy  know  about  love?  He's  too  young.  With  him 
love  is  but  a  passing  whim;  besides,  he  is  of  a  nature 
that  coujd  rally  from  a  disappointment;  he  could 
readily  turn  to  other  interests.  He  and  Lawrence  both 
are  young  men  who  make  their  way  over  any  impedi- 
ment, past  any  obstruction.  Lowell's  fascinated  now, 
but  even  though  he  never  met  her  again  he  wouldn't 
mind,  it  much,  would  go  on  with  his  profession  and 
live  a  worthy  life." 

Rolling  and  tossing  on  his  bed  he  moaned  helplessly: 
"The  truth  must  be  met.  I  have  reached  the  supreme 
hour  of  my  existence.  Unless  I  win  her,  my  life  is  a 
wreck."  He  said  again,  and  with  resolution,  "In  spite 
of  tact,  talent,  fortune  I  may  not  always  be  over- 
shadowed. Sometimes  a  resolute  will  forestalls  even 
good  luck. 


I  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  115 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

In  the  morning  George  rode  away  from  the  town 
and  followed  a  patliway  that  swept  around  the  hills 
and  was  overhung  with  chapparal  and  manzanita,  and 
after  winding  around  for  a  time  among  the  soft 
foliage  and  passing  a  camp-fire  left  smouldering  by 
hunters,  he  sought  a  refuge  high  up  among  the  pine- 
covered  hills.  Around  him  were  thick  mosses  and 
broad,  feathery  ferns,  and  near  by  a  silvery  streamlet 
went  tumbling'^over  the  stones  and  through  tiny  gorges, 
and  fed  forever  afresh,  still  went  hastening  on  to 
mingle  its  waters  with  some  larger  stream  below. 
Away  to  the  eastward  lay  the  beautiful  valley;  he  could 
see  the  golden  spires  of  the  little  city  and  through 
the  glass  he  had  brought,  there  plainly  discernible  was 
the  house  where  Doytlived,  standing  like  a  gem  among 
the  green. 

As  he  watched  it  the  turret  gave  out  flashes  of  light 
and  then  later  a  great  floating  mass  of  vapor  came  in 
from  the  sea  and  dimmed  it  for  a  mometnt  with  its 
shadow.  He  passed  the  morning  restfully,  for  from 
where  he  sat  the  view^  was  a  superb  one.  Spread  out 
before  him,  silvery,  shimmering  in  the  sunlight,  lay 
stretched  the  water  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  with  the 
white  boats  flitting  capriciously  aboitt  the  glass-like 
surface.  He  could  see  the  trains  of  cars  moving  across 
the  smooth  landscape  with  the  long  line  of  curling 
smoke  trailing  behind.  He  could  see  proud-stepping 
horses  and  glistening  carriages  gliding  along  the 
smooth  roadways,  while  snugly  settled  in  the  midst  of 
the  charming  surroundings  there,  munificently  spread 
before  him,  lay  the  broad  domain  and  the  liberal  array 
of  plain  sqnare  buildings  which  go  to  make  up  the  chief 
pride    of  the    beautiful    valley— Stanford    University. 


116  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

George  remained  there  among  the  trees,  listening  to 
the  music  of  the  water,  and  the  hours  went  on  and  he 
made  no  reckoning.  Feasting  his  e5^es  on  the  lovely 
landscape,  watching  the  changes  as  the  fleeting  shad- 
ows fell  across  it,  gathering  the  mountain  flowers, 
hearkening  to  the  hird-songs,  the  time  passed,  until 
he  knew  by  the  disappearing  of  the  great  sun  over  the 
mountain  top  that  the  afternoon  was  waning,  and  he 
was  glad  with  the  thought  that  before  the  light  of  that 
same  sun  was  gone  from  the  valley  he  should  see  her 
again. 

Doyt  met  him  in  the  hallway  that  evening  when  he 
arrived  at  Oaklawn.  As  he  bent  low  over  the  white 
hand  she  extended  to  him,  he  said  hesitatingly  and  in 
a  low  tone: 

^'How  can  I  thank  you!" 

"You  have  no  occasion  to  thank  me,  Mr.  Moulton," 
she  said  simply  in  reply;  "my  father  is  at  home  to- 
night, and  with  the  rest  of  the  household  will  be  glad 
to  meet  you  again." 

They  walked  together  through  to  the  reception 
room,  and  Dorcas  meeting  them  at  the  moment  of 
their  entrance  gave  George  a  welcome. 

The  windows  at  one  side  of  the  room  were  open  to 
the  roses  that  grew  outside;  to  a  view  of  the  fresh 
lawn,  and  the  shimmering  branches  of  the  delicate 
trees,  while  the  conservatory  at  the  end  filled  with  its 
broad  palms  and  dainty  ferns  and  orchids,  gave  to  the 
apartment  not  only  additional  length  cind  stateliness, 
but  that  confusing  and  enchantingly  unreal  effect, 
which  pertains  only  to  scenes  in  fairy-land. 

Gaining  some  insight  into  the  sweet  purity  of  ex- 
istence at  this  Eden,  George  said:  "What  a  glorious 
life  you  live  here!  It  seems  in  itself  so  perfectly  com- 
plete." 

It  was  Dorcas  who  answered  him.  "We  find  great 
enjoyment  in  the  mere  fact  of  living,  and  in  each 
other's  society";  then  looking,  at  the  same  time^  to 
the  substantial  utility  of  the  domestic  animals  in  pro- 


A  8T0RY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  117 

clucing  happiness,  she  continued:  "We  have  a  little 
colony  of  onr  own  here — horses,  cows,  dogs,  birds, 
fowls;  and  we  are  never  lonely.  It  is  very  retired  here 
and  quiet  and  we  love  it;  still/'  and  she  added  hospit- 
ably, "we  like  for  people  to  come  now  and  then  and  give 
us  glimpses  of  the  outside  world/' 

Dr.  Harding  and  John  were  soon  added  to  the 
group,  and  after  awhile  Aunt  Ehoda,  and  each  one 
after  greeting  their  guest  naturally  asked  after  his 
companion  at  the  seaside.  George  stood  with  his  fine 
shoulders  thrown  back  and  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  as  he  answered  and  told  them  what  he  knew  of  the 
student  he  watched  Doyt's  countenance,  and  it  was 
with  a  jealous  gasp  of  pain  that  he  thought  he  detected 
there  a  look  of  keen  interest. 

!N'otwdthstanding  his  severe  self-arraignment  of  the 
night  before,  George  was  gifted  and  accomplished.  His 
present  self-control  might  have  been  difficult  to  at- 
tain, but  as  he  talked,  there  was  no  trace  of  irritation 
in  his  voice.  If  there  were  anything  weak  or  calculat- 
ing in  his  nature,  he  gave  no  sign  of  it;  he  presented 
his  thoughts  on  many  subjects  in  an  unassuming  way; 
he  was  ready  in  quotation,  and  quick  in  repartee;  and 
all  present  felt  the  personal  fascination  of  their  young 
guest's  manner. 

He  went  out  to  dinner  with  the  family,  proud  of  him- 
self that  he  had.  been  considered  worthy  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  sweet  seclusion  of  the  household.  At 
the  time  he  felt  that  he  would  not  have  exchanged  his 
privilege  for  a  seat  beside  a  throne.  When  he,  in 
company  wdth  Dr.  Harding,  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  the  lights  were  lit^  and  the  conservatory  at  the 
end  was  hung  with  lanterns  which  brought  into  en- 
chanting view  the  gorgeous  plants,  touched  up  to  a^^ 
intense  depth  of  freshness  and  color,  and  dream-like 
beauty.  The  room  was  charmingly  attractive  in  its 
soothing  colors  and  its  soft,  harmonious  shades,  and 
toward  its  farther  side,  in  the  soft  light,  stood  Doyt, 
dressed  in  a  gown  of  clinging  white. 


118  AS  GOD  MADE  EER. 

George  had  seen  her  first  in  tlie  careless^  free^  out- 
door life  of  the  seashore;  seen  her  since  endowed  with 
the  charm  of  the  dauntless  rider,  impressed  always  with 
the  captivating  individuality  which  seemed  to  cling  to 
her;  always  with  the  beautiful  mystery  ol*  the  face 
and  the  form  as  surpassingly  perfect  as  a  sculptor's 
model,  hut  never  until  he  saw  her,  as  he  saw  her  now, 
had  he  seemed  to  have  reached  any  adequate  concep- 
tion of  what  the  Creative  Hand  is  capable. 

As  his  eyes  irresistible  sought  her  young  face,  he 
was  trying  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her  wonderful  at- 
traction; of  her  being,  as  it  were,  set  apart  from  hu- 
manity m  a  circle  wholly  her  own.  He  explained  to 
himself  by  saying  impulsively:  "It  is  because  she  is  so 
deliciously,  delightfully,  ingenuously  natural,  and  no 
more  conscious  of  her  beauty  than  a  diamond  is  of  its 
fire.'' 

When  requested  by  her  father  to  sing,  Doyt,  from 
impulses  of  love  and  habit,  went  in  an  entirely  un- 
embarrassed way  to  the  piano,  and  in  rich,  melodious 
voice  sang  a  simple  ballad  pleasing  to  him. 

As  George  saw  and  learned  more  of  her  it  brought 
to  him  new  anxiety;  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  intangibly 
growing  farther  and  farther  away.  In  the  hour  that 
he  had  spent  under  her  father's  roof  he  had  had  an 
insight  into  the  purity  of  their  life  there;  he  had  been 
impressed  with  her  contented  satisfaction,  with  her 
home  attractions;  and  serene  indifference  to  the  gayer 
world  outside;  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  value 
that  Dr.  Harding  placed  upon  his  only  child,  and 
gained  some  faint  conception  of  the  scrupulous  de- 
mands he  Avould  make  upon  the  character  of  the  man 
who  should  ever  have  the  temerity  to  ask  for  her  hand. 
When  the  song  was  finished  and  the  sound  of  the  soft 
voice  had  died  away,  though  his  heart  was  oppressed, 
still  he  seemed  held  as  by  some  form  of  beguilment. 
The  polished  man  of  the  world  seemed  almost  to  have 
lost  control  of  words.  A  flush  of  color  came  over  his 
handsome   face,  and  the    conventional   good  breeding 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  HQ 

which  had  always  been  manifest  in  his  manner,  seemed 
to  have  for  the  moment  deserted  him. 

With  difficulty  he  regained  his  self-possession.  Dor- 
cas had  said:  "Mr.  Moulton,  we  have  been  promising 
ourselves  the  pleasure;  play  for  us.^^ 

''Thank  you/^  he  said,  bowing  to  Dorcas,  "I  am  much 
honored/^  and  glad  indeed  to  cover  his  confusion,  he 
seated  himself  at  the  instrument  and  struck  a  few  rich 
chords. 

Piano  playing  was  the  one  accomplishment  in  which 
George  excelled  his  cousin;  he  sang  too  more  than  or- 
dinarily well.  He  had  given  much  time  to  music,  and 
to-night  he  played  with  all  the  skill  he  possessed.  Per- 
haps the  mood  he  w^as  in  was  the  source  of  his  in- 
spiration; for  he  seemed  to  be  able  through  the  instru- 
ment to  express  the  deepest  passions  of  the  human 
heart. 


120  ^^^  <^0D  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

Late  one  afternoon  as  Lowell  was  walking  along  a 
crowded  thoroughfare  of  San  Francisco^  some  weeks 
after  George's  visit,  he  saw  coming  toward  him  Doctor 
Harding  and  daughter. 

He  had  not  even  the  most  vague  expectancy  of  meet- 
ing them;  he  had  been  wondering  if  he  should  ever 
look  upon  them  again,  and  now  at  last  before  his  eyes 
was  the  being  who  had  so  strangely  come  into  his  life; 
here  was  the  face  which  had  been  constantly  before 
him,  in  the  midst  of  his  studies,  even  at  his  first 
awakening  from  sleep,  and  in  the  gloom  of  the  night; 
the  face,  on  the  fairness  of  which  he  had  pondered  per- 
petually since  his  eyes  haply  had  first  rested  upon  it 
one  vacation  day  down  by  the  sea. 

Among  the  thousands  of  beautiful  women  who 
throng  daily  the  streets  of  San  Francisco,  Doyt  Hard- 
ing's striking  beauty  of  face  and  form  arrested  the 
instant  attention  of  both  sexes. 

At  first  they  did  not  see  Lowell  in  the  rush  of  the 
crowd,  and  filled  with  a  strange  trepidation  and 
modestly  thankful  that  he  had  even  been  permitted  to 
look  u!pon  her  again,  he  was  making  his  way  onward 
when  the  father  caught  his  eye,  and,  placing  his  hand 
on  his  daughters  shoulder,  he  made  w^ay  for  her 
through  the  throng  to  where  he  stood,  and  greeted  the 
young  student  warmly,  and  a  moment  later  Doyt  put 
her  hand  in  his. 

Lowell  bowed  low  and  said  modestly:  '^I  am  for- 
tunate to  meet  you  and  thankful  that  you  have  not  for- 
gotten me.''  Then  he  added,  "I  hope  I  may  be  of  some 
use  to  you  here."  They  found  that  Lowell  had  lost 
none  of  his  grace  of  manner.  Hard  study  had  not 
made    him  look    either  grave    or  melancholy  and  his 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  121 

sparkling  brown  eyes  and  firm  erect  attitude  showed 
him  to  be  in  perfect  health. 

The  doctor  answered  as  they  stepped  aside  out  of  the 
throng:  ^'I  am  sure  you  have  no  need  to  be  distrustful 
of  our  friendship.  Your  kind  thoughtfulness  of  our 
enjoyment  while  at  the  seaside  insured  that,  and  your 
deed  of  bravery  there  surely  merits  the  faint  recom- 
pense of  remembrance.'"  A  moment  later  the  doctor 
said  familiarly:  '^'My  boy,  you  have  no  lectures  at  this 
hour  of  day,  have  you?"  Taking  it  for  granted  that 
he  was  not  pressed  by  any  college  duty,  without  wait- 
ing for  his  reph^,  he  continued:  "We're  on  our  way  to 
the  station  and  we  are  early.  Come  and  go  with  us; 
we  can  talk  along  the  w^ay." 

Lowell  gradually  gaining  possession  of  himself,  said 
in  reply:  "I  have  no  special  work  on  hand,  doctor,  no, 
but  if  I  had  I  should  be  tempted  to  shirk  it  for  such 
a  privilege,''  and  he  turned  springily  about  and  fell 
into  step  with  them. 

As  Lowell,  with  timid  pleasure,  walked  along  by 
Doyt's  side,  she  said  quietly:  "We  have  heard  of  you 
but  once  since  you  left  us."  He  imagined  her  low 
voice  was  a  little  unsteady  as  she  spoke  the  words. 

He  hesitated,  but  in  a  moment,  however,  curiosity 
got  the  better  of  diffidence  and,  turning  his  face  toward 
her  he  said  quickly:  "You  have  heard  of  me,  you  say?" 

Doyt  returned  his  glance  with  a  smile  and  replied 
readily:  "Yes,  when  your  cousin  was  down  to  see  us." 

There  w^as  a  quick  flash  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  into 
hers.  Here  was  a  discovery  that  had  come  without 
any  warning.     "George  had  been  down  to  see  her." 

As  Lowell  swung  along  with  the  others  he  did  not 
speak  for  a  time;  he  felt  that  he  did  not  dare  just  then 
to  trust  his  voice.  He  did  not  have  to  importune  his 
companions  for  an  explanation.  The  doctor  stepped 
away  from  Doyt's  side  and  came  around  to  his.  The 
conversation  continued,  and  it  all  bore  upon  the  home 
life,  and  he  gathered  from  w^hat  he  heard  that  George 
had  been  a  guest  at  the  country  home  and  had  re- 


122  ^^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

mained  in  the  vicinity  some  two  or  three  days.  Lowell, 
in  a  manly  way,  tried  to  put  aside  all  feeling  of  envy; 
to  eradicate  from  his  mind  any  thought  of  George's 
perfidy;  still,  try  as  he  would,  he  coud  not  dismiss 
from  his  perception  his  sense  of  appreciation  for  the 
privilege  that  George  had  enjoyed.  To  be  permitted 
to  become  familiar  with  the  one  spot  of  all  the  world 
to  him,  the  place  to  which  she  had  gone  when  she  left 
the  seaside;  to  see  the  house  where  she  had  first  seen 
the  light;  to  become  acquainted  with  her  home  life;  to 
be  near  her;  to  see  the  same  landscape;  to  breathe  the 
same  air;  to  look  up  into  the  same  sky,  would  be  a 
pleasure  beyond  conception. 

As  they  went  along  the  street,  wrapt  as  his  mind  was, 
Lowell's  attention  was  called  time  and  time  again  to 
the  patrician  dignity  of  the  man  at  his  side;  even 
amongst  the  multitude  he  wore  the  same  look  of  dis- 
tinction which  in  the  student's  mind  had  characterized 
him  at  their  first  meeting.  Here,  too,  his  tall,  erect 
form,  his  scholarly  air,  his  self-possessed  manner  his 
appearance  of  healthy  mentality  and  perfect  strength, 
attracted  notice  even  on  the  crowded  thoroughfare 
of  the  metropolis,  and  set  him  apart  from  the  rabble. 

Along  the  street  that  they  were  passing,  although 
he  felt  oppressed  by  the  stern  cruelty  of  it,  the  alert, 
observing  man,  fresh  from  his  country  place,  saw  much 
that  interested  him.  The  restless,  feverish,  tumul- 
tuous haste  of  humanity;  the  horses  with  their  heavy 
loads  toiling  along  the  rough  streets;  the  genuine  zest 
with  which  men  carried  On  their  petty  schemes;  the 
strength  wasted  on  frivolities;  the  kind  of  work  men 
do  without  protest  or  scruple,  tiresome,  irksome  tasks, 
day  after  day,  punctually  performed  and  without  hope 
of  deliverance  from  them,  but  most  of  all,  perhaps, 
the  strong  man  wondered  at  the  sight  of  men  sitting 
all  day  long,  with  unabated  patience,  in  their  dingy, 
stuffy  shops,  when  the  way  was  open  and  free  to  the 
hillsides. 


A  STORT  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  123 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  istation  and  the 
lights  of  the  city  were  gleaming  on  every  hand.  A 
crowd  had  gathered,  and  while  they  waited,  great  de- 
tached masses  of  gray  fog  came  floating  leisurely  in 
from  the  sea  and  lay  all  about  them.  It  seemed  to 
Lowell  but  a  moment  till  father  and  daughter  had  bid- 
deii  him  good-bye  and  had  entered  the  train.  Before 
thev  left  his  side  the  doctor  had  said  to  him:  "You 
will  come  to  Oaklawn  soon/'  and  Lowell,  looking  first 
at  him  and  then  glancing  at  bis  daughter  standing  by 
his  side,  had  said  respectfully:  "Since  you  will  permit 
me,  yes.''  AYaiting  there  he  saw  them  again  as  the 
train  moved  of!.  The  dignified  man  bowed  to  him, 
and  the  girl  reached  her  gloved  hand  from  the  window 
and  slowly  waved  it  toward  him. 

He  stood  still  where  they  had  left  him  and  watched 
the  car  as  it  went  from  sight,  then  the  smoke  from  its 
engines,  till  it  too,  disappeared  in  the  fog,  then  turned 
toward  home  with  a  light  heart. 

All  that  he  dared  to  ask  of  fate  had  been  granted 
him.  Life  was  happy  and  glad,  for  great  as  he  felt 
was  the  contrast  between  them,  he  was  not  to  be  sepa- 
rated from  her  forever;  he  was  to  see  her  again.  Farther 
on,  the  thought  came  to  him:  "Her  father  will  never 
part  with  her.  No  young  man  need  ever  harbor  the 
ambition  of  winning  her;  he  will  never  resign  her  to 
anyone.  No  wonder  her  father  idolizes  her,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "She  is  sent  from  heaven;  she  bears  the 
mark." 


124  ^'^^  (^OD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEE  XXA' III. 

The  benevolent  noon  sun  shone  down  on  the  glorious 
valley,  where  the  circle  of  the  seasons  brought  slight 
change,  and  where  the  year  round  the  land  teemed 
with  harvest.  It  was  now  the  vintage  time.  Under 
the  glov;ing  sunshine,  the  germination,  the  budding, 
the  flowering,  the  ripening  had  gone  on;  the  gathering 
of  the  rich  juices,  the  coloring,  the  polishing,  the 
glossing  of  the  dainty  covering;  and  now  the  dense 
masses  of  grapes  hung  in  thick  richness,  and  the  air 
everywhere  Avas  ladened  with  the  odor  of  perfected 
fruit. 

In  some  parts  of  the  valley  vineyards  seemed  almost 
unlimited  in  extent,  and  in  others  only  a  small  por- 
tion of  the  ten-acre  homes  had  been  allotted  to  them. 

There  was  a  quiet  hush,  a  sort  of  exultant  cairn  in 
the  air,  as  though  the  autumn  time  had  come,  the  har- 
vest was  over  and  nature  had  done  its  work. 

The  atmosphere  was  a  little  hazy  and  far  away  over 
the  summits  of  the  mountains  huge  gray  and  white 
cloud  masses,  and  now  and  then  when  the  wind  stirred, 
crisped  and  faded  leaves  came  fluttering  down  from  the 
swaying  tree-tops,  and  still  the  confident,  luscious 
summer-time  held  full  and  uninterrupted  sway.  Eoses 
and  liilies  still  blossomed,  and  glowing  carnations  and 
geraniums  and  pelargoniums  and  poppies  made  a 
blaze  of  gold  and  color.  On  the  leafy  tree  branches  yet 
hung  peaches  and  plums,  and  in  endless  profusion 
dates,  and  figs,  and  almonds,  and  walnuts,  and  quinces, 
and  lemons.  The  grass,  wakened  to  abundant  life 
again  by  autumnal  showers,  was  emerald  green,  and  in 
an  assured  way  wild  flowers  were  pushing  up  their 
heads  through  the  leaf-mold  on  the  hillsides. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  125 

Tho  contented  laborers  were  at  work  among  the 
vines,  and  they  were  beginning  to  gather  and  to  cart 
away;  and  all  the  width  of  the  green  valley  teams  and 
carts  could  he  seen,  loaded  with  the  nnrple  frnit,  going 
in  the  direction  of  the  drying  gronnds  and  the  wine- 
presses. 

!N'ow  and  then  the  clear  voice  of  one  of  the  drivers 
conld  be  heard  singing  some  quaint  melody  which  anon 
would  he  taken  up  hy  others  and  go  ringing,  linger- 
ingly,  down  the  quiet  valley. 

TJncle  John  went  al)out  the  place  at  Oaklawn  in  a 
general  state  of  bewilderment  in  regard  to  the  time 
of  year  and  the  seasons,  and  sometimes  he  grew  almost 
weary  of  the  luxurious  bounty  and  monotony,  and  even 
felt  a  longing  for  the  wild  winds  and  the  driving 
storms,  to  which  he  had  become  so  accustomed.  Still 
he  took  enthusiastic  interest  in  the  gathering  of  the 
manifold  fruits. 

Now,  he  and  Dorcas  were  out  among  the  laborers  and 
Doyt  was  near  them;  her  blue  sparkling  eyes,  looking 
out  from  underneath  the  brim*  of  a  broad  white  hat. 
She  was  taking  the  great,  massive,  bunches  from  her 
TJncle  John  as  he  cut  them  from  the  vine,  and  she 
was  stopping  now  and  then  to  admiringly  caress  one 
of  the  most  completely  polished  and  beautiful  of  the 
rival  clusters,  as  she  carefully  laid  it  away  in  the  box 
prepared  for  it. 

After  a  little  they  heard  the  roll  of  wheels,  and  look- 
ing up  from  their  work  they  saw  the  horses  and  empty 
wagons  coming  up  between  the  evergTeen  hedges;  and 
presently  they  noticed  Tim  climbing  out  of  the  back 
of  one  of  the  wagons  and  rushing  breathlessly  across 
the  orchard  toward  them,  with  "Kags"  barking  at  his 
heels.  Pulling  aside  the  vines  and  parting  the  fes- 
toons overhead  which  hindered  his  way,  he  came  up  to 
them,  panting  with  eagerness  and  eyes  ablaze  with  in- 
terest. Climbing  over  the  boxes  he  went  up  to  Dorcas 
and  opening  his  small  closed  fist  be  laid  a  piece  of 
money  in  her  hand. 


136  AS  GOD  MADE  HEB. 

"I'ts  two  bits,  Aunt  Dorcas,"  he  cried;  "yes,  the  man 
gave  it  to  me  for  watching  his  horses  down  there/' 
he  said,  nodding  toward  the  wine-presses.  "Yes, 
and  he  said  he'd  give  me  another  to-morrow  if  I'd 
see  to  his  horses  again."  Tim's  frowsled  head  was 
nodding  and  his  face  was  all  radiant  as  he  upturned  it 
to  hers.  Here  he  stepped  np  and  whispered  in  her 
ear  that  he  had  seen  the  doctor  down  at  the  press,  and 
that  he  had  told  him  that  sometime  he  might  bring 
Hobby  down.  Then  he  added  in  an  audible  voice,  and 
with  an  air  of  the  utmost  satisfaction:  "We  can  do  it 
now!     We  can  do  it  now!" 

Dorcas'  fiace  lighted  up,  too,  as  she  answered  him 
mysteriously,  "Yes,  we  can  do  it  now." 

Though  Doyt  and  her  uncle  were  in  the  dark  as  to 
what  project  was  on  hand,  "Eags,"  with  his  habitual 
sagacity,  seemed  to  comprehend  the  plan  and  to  enter 
fully  into  the  joy  of  the  occasion,  and  after  stretch- 
ing out  his  tongue  and  wagging  his  tail  vigorously  for 
a  minute  or  two,  with  zealous  loyalty,  he  took  a  seat 
just  where  Tim's  right  foot  rested  in  the  soft  soil. 

To  Tim  each  week  at  the  ranch  brought  some  fresh 
fascination,  some  new  amusement,  and  the  continua- 
tion of  open-air  pastimes  had  had  its  effect.  Each 
happy,  careless  day  had  added  to  his  health,  and 
growth,  and  strength,  and  comeliness.  He  had  never 
stopped  to  ask  himself  whether  this  heavenly  state 
was  going  to  last.  With  steel-like  endurance  he  had 
borne  privation  and  hardships  during  his  city  life;  now 
like  the  true  philosopher  that  he  was,  he  laid  hold  of 
every  new  variety  of  entertainment  with  keen  avidity 
and  Avith  all  the  energy  of  his  trusting  nature,  never 
once  questioning  its  duration. 

When  Dr.  Harding  came  home  he  made  his  way  in 
the  direction  of  the  vineyards,  through  the  riotous 
growth  and  the  dusky,  fragrant  avenues  made  by  the 
ladened  vines. 

He  had  just  returned  from  a  surgical  operation  on 
the  deformed  foot  of  a  little  child,  and  he  felt,  not 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  127 

the  regret  that  he  must  do  it,  but  the  regret  that  it 
had  to  be  done;  and  now  as  he  went  along  among  the 
fruit-burdened  boughs,  from  the  contrast  he  felt  the 
more  the  charm  of  the  scene  and  the  joyous  serenity 
and  peace  of  it. 

He  observed  closely  the  burdened  vines,  straining  on 
their  creeping  tendrils,  stretched  to  the  limit  of  their 
seemingly  frail  strength,  and  here  and  there  broken 
under  the  pendant  weight. 

He  lingered  on  in  the  midst  of  the  tropical  abund- 
ance absorbed  in  contemplation,  pondering  over  the 
majestical  mystery  of  growth.  In  that  position  the 
ou^tline  of  his  splendid  frame  was  plainly  visible,  as 
well  as  the  expression  of  his  intellectual  features. 
Looking  once,  one  would  want  to  look  again;  there 
was  such  manly  nobleness  in  his  mode  of  posture;  so 
much  conscious  strength  in  his  attitude;  such  a  look  of 
placid,  gladsome  content  in  the  expression  of  his  re- 
fined face.  He  gazed  admiringly  upon  the  ruddy  color, 
and  the  purple  richness  of  the  clusters  that  hung  about 
him;  tasted  their  ripe  sweetness,  and  breathed  in  their 
luscious  odor:  all  to  him  eloquent  of  God's  bounty, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  fall  in  one  continued  bene- 
diction. 

Though  he  saw  the  A^nes  bear  with  the  same  prodi- 
gality, year  after  year,  he  never  ceased  to  wonder  at 
the  extravagance  of  production  and  the  magnificence  of 
the  display.  He  was  struck  anew  with  the  magic  of 
growth,  with  the  dainty  attractiveness  of  the  form  of 
the  fruit;  and  more  with  the  magnificent  liberality  of 
the  gifts  of  Providence.  As  he  thought  upon  it,  the 
wonder  was  to  him  that  man  through  the  ages  had 
seemingly  ignored  these  complete,  indisputable  proofs 
of  Providential  love  and  goodness,  and  had  found  it 
necessary  to  go  to  the  Book  to  learn  about  God. 

When  the  doctor  came  nearer,  he  saw  the  wagon 
partially  filled,  and  on  the  ground  the  boxes  packed 
to  the  top  stood  ready  for  removal.  Doyt's  bright 
form  was  flitting  here  and  there;  he  could  see  Tim 


lOg  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

and  tlie  do_a",  thoiigli  part  of  the  time  liidden  by  the 
foliage,  and  Dorcas  and  John  now  and  then  peering 
out  among  the  vines.  "What  a  charming  picture  of 
peaceful  labor!"  the  doctor  said,  as  he  came  up  to  them. 
"It  is  such  a  scene  as  this  that  makes  a  man's  life 
rich.''  Presently  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  wagon  loaded 
and  ready  to  move  away  with  its  luscious  burden, 
"What  recompense  for  work!  We  are  royally  served 
if  we  would  but  remember  the  oblio-ation!" 


A  8 TORT  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  129 

Or    T^ 


UNIVERSITY 

CHAPTEEXXIX. 

The}'  had  barely  returned  to  the  vineyard  after 
luncheon  when  a  message  came  for  the  doctor  that 
^Yilliams  was  worse.  As  he  prepared  to  go,  Doyt 
dropped  her  work,  and  standing  before  her  father, 
she  looked  up  into  his  face  pleadingly  and  said: 

"T  may  go  with  you?     Grandma  will  need  me." 

He  knew  of  a  truth  that  Grandma  would  need  her. 
and  need,  too,  all  the  warm  comfort  that  the  girl  could 
give  her,  and  though  he  would  gladly  have  held  her 
aloof  from  all  the  hard  sorrows  of  the  world,  after  a 
moment's  thought  he  gave  consent. 

^lany  years  ago,  in  the  coal  regions  of  Wales, 
Grandma  Williams  had  married,  when  still  quite 
yoniig.  Her  husband,  though  strong  of  frame,  a  hard 
■worker,  and  a  fairly  good  provider,  proved  to  be  a  man 
given  to  drink;  and  almost  with  her  marriage  her  hard- 
ships began,  and  her  children,  from  their  earliest  years, 
larely  heard  him  speak  in  kindness  to  her.  She  was 
not  of  a  temperament  that  could  live  in  endless  tur- 
moil, so  she  had  been  obliged  to  concede  to  him  the 
right  to  talk  to  her  as  he  would.  Forced  to  it,  she 
gradually  gave  up  her  spirit  of  independence  and  suc- 
cumbed to  fate. 

In  the  course  of  years  her  husband,  during  a  winter 
revival,  became  a  member  of  the  church,  and,  in  a 
measure,  left  off  drinking;  but  his  harshness  and 
cruelty  to  his  wife  continued. 

Doyt  remembered  hearing  Grandma  tell  how  in  the 
old  country,  a  region  of  scattered  villages,  she  had 
often,  even  on  a  Sunday  evening,  tramped  to  the 
church,  four  long  miles  away,  carrying,  too,  a  sleeping 
baby,  because  the  sermons  preached  there  in  those  days 
helped  in  a  degree  to  hold  him  in  check  during  the 
9 


13Q  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

week.     She  remembered,  too,  that  Grandma  in  telling, 
the  story  had  said: 

"Marriage  with  one  yon  love,  and  with  one  who 
loves  you,  is  one  perpetual  bliss;  bnt  the  union  of  un- 
congenial and  warring  souls  leads  only  to  degradation 
and  misery.  In  the  newness  of  our  married  life,  there 
were  a  few  sunshiny  days;  then  arrogance  and  domineer- 
ing came;  then  drunkenness  and  beating;  and  when  he 
was  suddenly  called  awa}^,  I  really  could  only  feel  a 
sense  of  relief." 

When  Doyt  and  her  father  reached  the  cottage,  they 
found  the  sick  man  very  weak  and  breathing  heavily, 
and  it  was  evident  at  a  glance  that  now  the  end  was 
not  far. 

In  the  whole  community  where  he  practiced  there 
were  none,  perhaps,  who  had  a  finer  appreciation  of 
the  doctor's  character  than  this  mother  and  son.  The 
distinctive  personality  of  the  invalid  was  manifesting 
itself  to  the  last.  He  reached  eagerly  for  the  doctor's 
hand,  and  studied  earnestly  the  kindly  face.  Perhaps 
there  was  not  much  of  hope  to  be  read  in  it,  for  sinking 
back  on  his  pillow  with  hard  courage  he  said  in  dis- 
jointed sentences:  "I'm  cut  up  badly — I  know  it;  my 
name  will  soon  be  taken  off  the  books."  If  he  had 
held  any  fear  of  death  through  all  his  sickness,  he  had 
concealed  it  jealously.  He  had  suffered  much,  and 
»there  had  been  a  deep  running  sore  near  the  spine  for 
mouths.  The  room  was  very  quiet,  now,  and  there 
were  serious  faces  about  the  bed,  and  perhaps  the  sick 
man  felt  it  a  necessity  to  thrust  away  the  solemnity 
that  seemed  to  be  gathering  around,  for  after  a  spell 
of  very  difficult  breathing,  he  said:  "There's  but  one 
thing  that  haunts  me  and  troubles  me." 

The  doctor  bent  his  head  to  catch  his  words,  when 
he  continued  with  an  appearance  of  great  earnestness: 
"The  hole  in  my  back,  doctor.  I'd  like  damned  well  to 
know  where  it  goes  to."  The  sick  man  laughed  along 
with  the  rest,  and,  presently,  rousing  his  energies,  said 
again:  "'After  I  go  I  want  you  to  make  an  exploration 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE,  131 

of  the  cavity,  and/'  he  waited  for  breath,  and  then 
added,  "and  ''telephone  me  the  result." 

He  had  never  in  any  emergency  plead  for  sympathy; 
he  would  not  now.  He  had  a  dread  of  any  sort  of 
hypocrisy;  he  would  die  as  he  had  lived. 

"When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Doyt  sat  by  the  bed 
fanning  the  flies  away.  Williams  lay  with  his  face  a 
little  to  one  side.  It  was  white  and  drawn,  the  eyes 
glistening  and  bright.  The  bed  was  shining  clean, 
the  pillow-cases,  lace-trimmed,  were  blue  white,  and 
freshly  ironed.  Doyt  went  about  the  room  with  such 
quick,  gentle  step,  and  it  was  with  such  soft  grace  of 
movement  that  she  waited  on  him,  that  it  seemed  to 
refresh  even  the  dying  man  to  watch  her.  She 
arranged  the  pillows,  and  tried  to  soothe  the  nervous, 
irritable  invalid,  and  every  touch  was  full  of  tender 
kindness. 

She  gently  lifted  and  placed  his  "big  foot"  on  a  pil- 
low; she  bathed  his  face  and  smoothed  back  his  hair, 
and  then  the  sick  man  reached  and  took  one  of  the  rose 
buds  from  the  bunch  she  had  brought,  and  after 
breathing  its  fragrance  greedily,  he  laid  its  long  stem 
across  his  bosom. 

When  Doyt  had  first  come  into  the  room,  she  had 
laid  her  hand  on  the  aged  woman's  spare  shoulder,  and 
said:  "Poor,  dear  Grandma,  how  is  your  rheumatism 
to-day?" 

That  grand  old  mother!  For  more  than  eighty-four 
years  she  had  borne  life's  burdens;  and  who  can  say 
how  much  good  the  kindly  words,  to  which  she  was  so 
unaccustomed,  did  her?  She  was  worn  and  weary  and 
ready  to  drop  from  weakness  and  loss  of  sleep.  She 
put  her  hand  down  on  her  withered  limb.  "My  right 
limb  is  bad,"  she  said,  in  a  subdued  tone.  Williams 
had  caught  the  words  and  they  served  to  increase  his 
petulance,  and  in  an  instant  his  old  arrogance  had 
returned.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  said 
fiercely,  looking  toward  his  bent,  old  mother:  "God 
in  heaven!     If  I  was  only  as  well  off  as  you  are!     I'd 


132  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

like  to  know  wliat  you've  got  to  growl  about!  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  got  off  with  no  more 
damage  than  a  pair  of  lame  legs." 

Doyt,  full  of  trouble,  thought:  "How  could  he  be  so 
merciless?  There  was  not  in  him  the  least  recognition 
of  her  weakness  or  helplessness.  What  cou^ld  make  the 
blank  indifference  to  her  condition?"  She  thought: 
"Was  it  a  tumult  of  remorse?  Was  it  that  he  felt 
afresh  the  wrong  he  had  done  her?  Was  there  some- 
thing in  that  grand  old  face  that  made  it  unutterably 
galling  to  realize  the  fact  that  he  had  used  all  her 
means,  and  was  now  going  to  leave  her  in  her  helpless 
old  age  to  the  mercy  of  strangers?  Did  it  soothe  his 
self-respect  to  try  to  throw  blame  on  her,  and  disown 
her  vast  claims  to  his  gratitude?"  Doyt  herself  felt 
in  a  way  humiliated,  but  her  main  regret  was  that  the 
kind  old  soul  knew  that  she  had  heard  his  words. 

The  young  girl's  eyes  rested  on  that  shrunken,  bent, 
frail  body.  She  was  conscious  of  the  woman's  stung 
pride;  she  knew  the  brutal  words  had  pierced  her 
heart.  Doyt's  young  eyes  saw  all  that  was  written  in 
that  noble,  withered  face;  all  the  long  conflict,  the 
patience,  the  courage;  all  the  disappointment  and  the 
sorrow,  and  all  the  marks  of  patient  toil;  and  she  read 
in  it,  too,  all  the  rectitude,  all  the  open  truthfulness, 
all  the  honor  of  her  whole  life.  And  now  she,  who 
was  worthy  of  all  the  honor  that  could  be  bestowed 
on  womanhood,  must  endure  only  harsh  rebuke;  she, 
who  was  nearing  the  end  of  her  exhausted  life,  and 
should  be  cared  for  with  all  the  tenderness  given 
a  babe,  must  be  driven  on  by  that  waning,  but  merci- 
less power.  Doyt  watched  the  thin  body  that  had  once 
been  so  strong,  quivering  with  its  suppressed  anguish, 
and  for  a  moment  the  girl's  sympathies  were  alienated 
even  from  the  dying;  her  only  impulse  being  protection 
at  any  cost  for  the  tortured  feelings  of  the  helpless 
mother.  Though  she  could  see  no  way  to  save  her 
from  him,   her  young   soul   rose   in   revolt,   and   she 


A   ^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  133 

thought  passionately:  "If  he  would  only  die  before  he 
kills  her!" 

When  Grandma  had  tottered  out  into  the  other 
room,  Doyt  waited  until  Williams  dozed,  then  slipped 
out  to  her  side,  coaxing  her  to  lie  down  awhile.  She 
took  the  two  brown,  wrinkled  hands  within  her  own, 
and  tried  to  soften  her  woe.  The  withered  lip  was 
quivering,  but  there  came  no  complaint  as  to  his 
uncivil  words.  Sitting  down  beside  her,  she  drew  the 
girl's  head  nearer,  and  in  a  gentle  voice,  and  with  her 
pretty  Welsh  accent,  ''Dovt,  dear,  my  laddie — there's 
the  look  of  death  in  his  face,"  she  said.  Doyt  went 
back  to  her  post  at  the  side  of  the  sufferer;  she  looked 
on  in  puzzled  wonder  to  see  the  change  that  came  over 
him. 

The  yellow  sunlight  came  into  the  room  and  fell 
upon  the  white  bed,  and  flitted  merrily  here  and  there 
about  the  cover  as  the  leaves  of  the  trees  outside  moved 
to  and  fro.  The  invalid  dozed  at  intervals;  once  just 
as  he  was  dropping  off  to  sleep,  he  raised  his  head  an 
instant,  and  said  with  a  wear\^  smile,  and  as  though 
he  were  overlooking  some  duty:  "I  must  go  up  in  the 
country,  you  know,  to-morrow."  At  length  from  his 
sleep  he  rose  up  excitedly,  and  his  grip  on  the  bedding 
tightened,  "I  can't  stand  this  thing,"  he  said  gasping; 
"I've  got  to  have  something  to  strengthen  me."  He 
looked  about  the  room,  then  said  peevishly:  "Where 
has  she  gone?"  Doyt  offered  to  get  anything  for  him. 
"No,  wait,  you  can't  get  it,"  he  said  in  a  liusky  whisper, 
"she  knows  where  it  is."  The  feeble,  ])roken  mother 
was  by  his  side  again,  and  with  her  trembling  hands 
was  trying  to  pour  brandy  from  a  bottle.  As  he 
watched  her,  a  deeper  brown  came  over  the  man's  face, 
and,  trying  to  raise  Jiimself  on  his  elbow,  he  said 
savagely:  "I'd  like  to  know  what  good  that  cursed  cry- 
ing's'goiiig  to  do?"  As  he  fell  back,  he  said  helplessly: 
"It's  damned  unfair  to  take  advantage  of  a  fellow  in 
this  fix."  He  drained  a  moment  later  the  glass  she 
had  brought  him,  and  then  lying  back  he  muttered: 


134  ^^  ^OD  MADE  HER. 

"The  job  I've  got  on  hand  isn't  cheerful  business  at 
the  best;  to  me,  myself,  the  notion  isn't  fascinating." 

The  poor  unappreciated  mother  through  all  the  long 
years  of  his  harshness,  her  love  for  him  had  not  died 
out,  but,  in  a  way,  increased;  now  all  the  passion  of 
her  strong  nature  was  blended  into  one  great  piteous 
longing  for  tenderness;  still  she  made  successful  efforts 
for  self-control. 

"And,"  he  went  on  contemptuously,  "that  sniveling's 
the  thing,  though;  I'd  just  go  on  with  it,  if  I  were  you. 
It  helps  a  man  to  breathe,  it  does." 

With  a  most  pathetic  effort  she  answered  him, 
gently,  all  worn  out  as  she  was  with  her  grief,  her 
years,  her  work,  and  her  wakefulness.  Who  could 
measure  the  hunger  of  that  poor  heart  ?  All  the  desire 
of  her  life  seemed  to  be  mingled  into  one  passionate 
longing,  and  that  was  for  some  expression  of  kindness 
from  him. 

All  the  fond  love  she  had  had  for  him.  in  his  earlier 
years,  all  the  ties  of  babyhood  came  back  to  her  now. 
In  her  sweet  soul  there  was  not  a  tinge  of  resentment; 
all  else  was  overlooked  and  forgotten  save  that  her 
only  child  lay  dying. 

The  soft  wind  came  in  at  the  open  window,  and  the 
sweet  fragrance  of  the  flowers  outside.  The  sick  man's 
breath  came  harder.  With  a  strained  earnestness  in 
her  aged  eyes,  the  feeble  mother  went  on  gently  min- 
istering to  his  wants. 

When  the  sun  had  gone  down  low  in  the  west  some 
neighbors  came  in  to  take  their  place  as  watchers  for 
the  night,  and  Poyt  prepared  to  go. 

When  she  had  bidden  the  pale  sufferer  good-bye. 
Grandma  made  her  way  to  the  little  side  porch  by  her 
side,  and  together  they  sat  down  on  its  edge. 

An  acacia  tree  with  its  feathery,  shimmering  leaves 
stood  near,  and  a  clematis  vine  climbed  over  the  brown 
railing  of  the  porch,  and  white  clusters  of  its  blossoms 
hung  about  their  heads. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  135 

The  giri  put  her  arm  gently  ahoiit  the  bent,  worn 
frame,  and  laid  her  velvety  cheek  against  the  one  all 
bronzed  by  time  and  weather.  She  thought  sadly:  "I 
can  sympathize  with  her,  she  knows  that  I  do,  bnt  then 
I  am  not  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood/'  As  the  two 
remained  there  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  came 
through  the  acacia  leaves  and  lay  in  ardent  warmth 
about  them,  and  brought  out  with  vivid  force  the 
pathos  that  lay  in  t]ie  contrast. 

The  fair  child  with  the  broad,  smooth  brow,  the  soft- 
tinted,  glowing  skin,  the  beaming  blue  eyes,  the  ripe, 
parted  lips,  the  fresh  blooming  cheek,  the  exquisitely 
sweet  mouth,  untouched  and  unmarked  by  the  world^s 
hardness. 

In  the  other  face,  brown  and  thin,  was  recorded  years 
of  martyrdom,  baffled  plans,  long-enduring  pain,  pov- 
erty, calamity,  agony,  servitude;  it  was  seamed  by 
sorrow,  scarred  by  care,  withered  by  cruel  usage, 
parched  by  neglect,  and  starved  for  lack  of  sympathy. 
To  the  one,  life  was  joyous  and  beautiful  and  full  or 
flavor;  to  the  other  only  the  gray  ashes  of  existence 
seemed  left. 

When  the  glow  was  all  fading  away  in  the  west. 
Grandma  said  tenderly:  "I  must  return  to  him  again; 
go  now,  dear,  they'll  be  missing  you  at  home." 

In  the  gray  dawn  a  messenger  came  for  the  doctor; 
he  remained  by  the  side  of  the  dying  man,  doing  what 
he  could  to  soothe  his  pain  until  the  worn  spirit  was 
free. 

Later  in  the  morning,  when  Doyt,  with  her  Aunt 
Dorcas,  went  over  to  the  cottage,  Williams  lay  peace- 
fully at  rest,  his  wasted  hands  were  folded  across  his 
bosom  and  on  his  face  was  the  look  of  a  saint. 

N'eighbors  who  had  not  ventured  across  that  thresh- 
old for  years  dropped  in  one  after  another,  for  Grand- 
ma had  the  goodwill  of  them  all. 


136  ^^^  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

One  said:  "He  died  cursing  to  the  last/^  They  could 
not  comprehend  how  the  mother  love  had  grown 
stronger  in  her,  through  all  the  years  of  suppression. 
They  could  only  congratulate  her  that  he  was  gone. 
The  grand  old  mother  stood  leaning  against  the  casing 
of  the  door  as  Doyt  looked  toward  her.  No  cry  of  pain 
broke  from  her,  but  the  salt  tears  were  flowing  freely 
down  the  thin,  faded  face.  The  girl's  heart  quickened 
with  a  throb  of  indignation.  She  was  in  a  position 
where  she  could  defend  her  now,  and  with  quick  awak- 
ened loyalty  she  went  across  the  room  and  taking  her 
place  by  Grandma^s  bending  form,  and  facing  the 
others,  on  an  unweighed  impulse,  spoke:  "Under  this 
roof  remember  only  that  a  heart-broken  mother 
mourns.''^ 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  137 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Late  one  afternoon  a  young  man,  neat  in  apparel 
and  comely  in  person,  Avith  noble  poise  of  the  head, 
athletic  symmetry  and  a  knightly  stride  of  the  limb, 
possessing  a  student's  face  with  its  thoughtful  eyes  and 
broad  brow,  was  making  his  way  up  the  avenue  that 
led  to  Dr.  Harding's  home. 

He  had  been  occupied  with  the  effort  to  regain  pos- 
session of  himself  after  the  strain  of  examinations,  and 
just  at  this  time  his  sense  of  exemption  from  anxiety 
was  delightful.  It  was  Lowell,  who  thus  freed,  had 
come  to  Oaklawn,  and  he  came  remembering  the  young 
girl's  face,  like  one  seen  in  dreams,  and  too  beautiful 
for  anything  save  visions. 

As  he  went  through  the  lovely  grounds  all  nature 
seemed  to  him  to  be  in  a  state  of  jubilance.  The  air 
was  rich  with  bird  music  and  riotous  with  gorgeous 
blossoming;  and  on  up  the  flower-bordered  walks,  under 
the  shadows  of  the  exquisite  trees,  beneath  the  spread- 
ing palms  and  through  the  long,  dark  shadows  of  the 
oaks,  his  step  was  swift  and  quick,  for  youthful  expec- 
tation was  at  its  height. 

Although  with  the  force  of  his  whole  being,  Lowell 
longed  to  see  her  again,  still  it  was  with  some  hesitancy, 
as  to  the  prudence  of  his  coming,  that  he  approached 
the  house.  He  instinctively  knew  that  through  all  the 
years  of  his  life  his  soul  might,  until  of  late,  have  been 
dormant,  it  had  at  last  received  the  touch  that  had 
awakened  it.  He  knew,  that  struggle  against  it  as  he 
might  that  she  had  already  become  a  part  of  his  life; 
ho  knew  that  the  more  he  saw  of  her  the  stronger  he 
would  be  bound;  and  that  suffer  as  he  might,  no  mat- 
ter how  far  separated  from  her,  that  he  could  never 
again  be  free  from  her  influence,  and  that  his  life 
would  be  desolate  without  her. 


138  ^^  <^0D  MADE  HER. 

When  Dorcas  showed  him  into  the  cheerful,  friendly 
drawing-room,  the  full  household  was  present;  the 
doctor,  the  beautiful  girl,  the  Eastern  people  and  Tim.. 
It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  concealed  his  surprise, 
when  conspicuous  among  them,  he  saw  his  cousin 
George.  In  his  complete  self-absorption  he  had  not 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  meeting  him;  but  now 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  evidence  of  his  eyes. 

The  doctor  arose  from  his  big  armchair  in  the  corner 
and  came  toward  him  with  genial  hospitality;  his  fine 
eyes  glowing,  as  grasping  him  by  the  hand,  he  said: 
"We  are  glad  at  last  to  be  permitted  to  welcome  you  to 
Oaklawn.^^  A  moment  later  and  he  had  taken  the  hand 
and  heard  again  the  sweet,  familiar  voice  of  the  girl  of 
whom  he  had  dreamed.  She  was  dressed  simply  in 
soft,  cHnging  drapery  of  pure  white  with  corsage  bou- 
quet of  maiden-hair  fern  and  violets. 

Her  beauty  seemed  to  Mm  more  perfect  than  before, 
and  its  rarety  more  striking;  the  sun-fed  skin,  the  fresh 
fairness  of  her  face,  the  grace  of  her  motions,  the  earn- 
est softness  of  her  voice,  her  beautiful  smile;  alike,  be- 
wildered and  fascinated  him.  As  he  contemplated  her 
from  time  to  time,  he  felt  the  wonder  that  even  di- 
vinity itself  should  have  so  molded  the  muscles  of  the 
human  face  as  to  give  it  such  expression. 

On  his  arrival,  after  speaking  to  the  others,  Lowell 
had  bowed  to  George,  who  advanced  and  offered  to 
shake  hands,  an  additional  ceremony  which  seemed  to 
the  former  unnecessary.  Further  on  in  the  evening 
when  the  lights  had  been  brought  in,  it  was  still  in 
evidence  that  George  was  inclined  to  be  friendly. 

As  he  seated  himself,  he  said,  considering  a  moment: 
"Let  me  see;  when  are  you  free,  Lowell?"^  Lowell 
saw  that  the  rest  of  the  company  awaited  his  reply,  and 
he  answered,  tranquilly:  "I  feel  that  I  have  been  in 
pretty  active  service,  but  I  am  happy  to  announce,'^  he 
said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "that  the  campaign  is 
ended."  "Are  you  in  earnest,  Lowell  ?  I  thought  you 
looked  thin  and  wan;  and  so  the  term's  ended?'' 


A  ."^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  139 

^•'Yes,  closed  yesterday." 

"Aha!"  said  George,  "and  youVe  passed  and  the  time 
has  come  for  felicitations.  Well,  well,  old  boy,"  he 
said,  drawing  his  chair  nearer,  "and  how  do  you  feel 
now  that  you  are  a  senior?" 

A.  "Well,"  he  answered  slowly  and  with  calm  frank- 
ness, "perhaps  it  is  a  matter  of  no  interest  to  the 
friends  here,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  conld  make  it 
plain  to  human  comprehension  how  I  do  feel.  To  be 
honest,"  he  added,  looking  furtively  at  Doyt,  "I  am  so 
satisfied  with  the  achievement  I  have  made,  that  I  have 
to  pray  all  the  time  to  be  delivered  from  the  sin  of 
arrogance." 

The  doctor  extended  his  hand  to  Lowell  and  said: 
"Let  me  express  to  you  my  heartfelt  congratulations 
on  the  event  and  to  say  to  you  that  as  far  as  this 
household  goes,  you  are  allowed  to  make  the  most  ex- 
orbitant claims  on  its  respect  for  what  you  have  ac- 
chieved.  Fve  been  in  your  place,  my  boy;  I  know 
something  about  that  active  service  of  which  you  speak; 
the  wrestling  with  the  long,  medical  names  for  nerves 
and  bones  and  muscles  and  blood-vessels;  and  I  know 
something  of  the  suspense  after  the  'Finals,'  while  you 
await  Judicial  decision,  and  don't  know  whether  you  are 
going  to  stand  or  fall."  He  went  on  meditatively: 
"The  pictures  of  my  class  are  hanging  down  in  my 
office  now;  an  artless  but  dispirited,  thin,  jaded-looking 
set  they  are,  but  a  fair  representation  of  the  fragment 
that  was  left  of  each  one  of  us  at  the  close  of  the  siege. 

"I  like  to  attend  Commencements;  I  always  feel  very 
deferential  in  the  presence  of  the  students,  for  the  fact 
may  not  be  generally  understood,  but  a  medical  class 
at  graduation  are  the  wisest  of  their  generation.  I  tell 
you,"  he  continued,  with  engaging  earnestness,  'that  no 
successful  practitioner,  no  demonstrator,  no  college  lec- 
turer could  stand  the  abstruse  questioning  and  reel  off 
the  names  of  remote  infinitesimal  subdivisions  of  an- 
atomy, pathology,  histology,  biology,  and  microscopy 
that  they  are  capable  of.     They're  only  wise  for  a  little 


140  ^^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

while;  the  distention  is  more  than  human  mentality 
can  endure  and  in  less  that  a  week,  the  most  of  what 
they  grasp  with  such  inscrutable  tenacity,  has  fled.  It 
is  well  that  this  is  so/'  he  added,  "for  unless  they  had 
some  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  burden  they  would  be 
incapacitated  for  any  other  effort,  save  that  of  holding 
to  it.  They  would  become  a  mere  thesaurus,  worth- 
less only  as  reference.'^ 

Then  Dorcas'  sympathy  began  to  go  out  to  Lowell, 
and  with  an  air  of  practical  good  sense,  she  said:  "I 
should  think  that  the  anatomical  intricacies  of  the  hu- 
man body  were  enough  without  multiplying  the  difficul- 
ty by  the  endless  long  names  they  attach  to  them.  Med- 
ical professors,  if  anybody,  ought  to  have  some  consis- 
tent sense  of  how  much  the  young  student  can  memor- 
ize without  injury;  still  I  cannot  learn  that  they  are 
making  the  least  effort  toward  simplifying  the  murder- 
ous nomenclatures  with  which  their  science  is  begirt.  If 
I  had  my  way,  Lowell,  I  should  put  more  dietetics  and 
hygiene  into  the  curriculum,  even  if  there  were  less  of 
science,  and  bring  about  an  entirely  new  set  of  condi- 
tions. Young  men  starting  out  in  the  profession  of 
healing  people  who  haven't  time  themselves  to  think 
anything  about  their  bodily  needs,  have  about  the  hard- 
est kind  of  work  ahead  of  them  that  there  is  to  be  done 
in  the  world.  Just  at  the  outset  of  that  life  I  never 
could  see  any  reason  in  putting  a  strain  upon  their 
vitality  that  is  enough  to  wreck  it." 

Lowell  made  an  effort  to  thank  the  speaker  for  her 
healthful  interest  in  medical  students  in  general,  him- 
self included,  but  sometimes  he  found  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  talk,  and  he  was  conscious  only  that  a 
pair  of  lustrous  blue  eyes  were  resting  upon  him.  He 
was  occupied  in  thinking  whether  she  knew  there  had 
been  an  inspiration  behind  all  the  work  he  had  been  do- 
ing: he  was  wondering  whether  she  would  ever  know 
how  she  had  already  entered  into  his  plans  of  life;  how 
intimately  she  had  been  connected  with  every  hour  of 
his  study.     How  many  evenings  had  he  walked  up  and 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  141 

down  with  his  book  in  his  hand,  his  mind  busy  pictur- 
ing her  in  her  home  here  in  the  beautiful  valley,  his 
fancy  often  far  more  absorbing  than  the  lesson  before 
him! 

"Are  your  vocal  organs  in  order  to-night  ?"  suddenly 
the  doctor  asked,  turning  toward  George.  "Never 
better,  1  believe,  doctor,''  the  young  man  answered 
readily.  "If  I  have  the  power  to  serve  you  I  am  ready 
to  receive  orders''  he  continued,  as  with  cultured  ease 
he  moved  toward  the  piano.  Turning  about  a  moment 
later  he  bowed  to  Doyt  and  added:  "If  Miss  Harding 
consents,  we  will  sing  the  song  we  practiced  this  after- 
noon." Lowell  winced,  but  stepped  aside  as  the  young 
lady  gracefully  assented,  and  while  he  watched  her, 
with  perfect  repose  of  manner  she  took  her  place  at 
George's  side.  George  sang  well;  his  voice  was  rich 
and  full  and  there  was  a  pathos  in  it  that  thrilled  the 
heart.  There  was  a  certain  touching  sweetness  in  the 
girl's  voice  and  a  beautiful  blending  of  the  two  as  they 
sang  together.  Afterward  George  played  two  or  three 
classical  selections,  then  a  short  interval  elapsing 
Lowell  saw  the  pretty  white-robed  form  standing  again 
at  George's  side,  and  at  Uncle  John's  modest  request 
they  sang  in  tones  soft  and  gentle  the  old  song  these 
people  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  in  childhood,  and 
which  yet  retained  the  same  old  irresistible  charm. 
With  modulated  voices,  yet  with  distinctest  utterance, 
slowly  came  the  words: 

*'We  have  come  from  the  mountains  of  the  old  Gran- 
ite State ; 
Where  the  hills  are  so  lofty,  magnificent,  and  great.' 

Uncle  John  sat  with  arms  folded  on  the  back  of  the 
chair;  in  front  of  him  the  doctor,  listening  attentively 
till  the  last  soothing  word  of  the  old  song  died  away. 
Rhoda  laid  aside  her  stern  habit  and  recalled  to  her 
remembrance  the  last  time  in  the  far  Eastern  home  she 
had  heard  the  same  old  words.  And  Lowell,  while 
Doyt  sang,  his  eyes  had  remained  fixed  upon  her.     He 


14:2  ^^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

took  note  of  the  graceful  position  of  the  body,  of  the 
setting  of  the  head,  of  the  swelling  of  the  white  throat. 
He  gazed  with  a  longing  to  make  himself  sure  that  it 
was  not  all  a  vivid  dream — that  she  really  did  exist. 
Other  guests  joined  the  company  and  later  on  in  the 
evening  Lowell  passed  through  the  door  which  the 
doctor  held  open  for  him  and  with  him  entered  the 
library. 

"You  see,  I  have  not  altogether  left  the  paths,  of 
learning  if  I  am  out  of  college.  Here  are  my  books. 
Come  and  look  at  them.'^  Lowell  was  charmed  with 
the  book-lined  room  with  its  atmosphere  of  enjoyment 
and  comfort,  its  easy  chairs,  the  long  writing  table,  its 
study-lamp.  As  they  passed  along  Lowell  noted  the 
different  shelves  which  contained  the  early  classics — 
philosophy,  poetry,  biography' — and  the  doctor  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  many  of  his  favorite  books  the  young 
man  had  read.  "Some  of  my  books  have  been  bought 
under  caprice,  some  by  method;  you  will  find  here  the 
ancient  authors  side  by  side  with  the  most  modern.  It 
has  been  interesting  to  me  to  study  men's  intellects  in 
their  gropings  after  truth;  to  know  what  men  have 
thought  in  the  different  ages;  to  notice  how  the  opin- 
ions of  some  minds  have  led  the  world  into  superstition 
and  error  which,  has  lasted  until  some  heathful  thinker 
has  released  it  again.''  After  a  time  Lowell  took  a 
seat  in  one  of  the  wide  chairs  near  the  table,  the  man 
with  the  broad  brow,  mellow  eyes  and  rich  voice  and 
the  strange  depth  of  character  opposite. 

Through  the  low  windows  they  could  look  upon  the 
soft,  serene  picture  outside,  on  the  rich  beauty  of  the 
flowers  and  the  trees  in  the  moonlight.  His  compan- 
ion talked  on:  "In  my  practice  I  am  thrown  in  among 
such  a  motley  collection  of  humanity  I'd  become  a  bar- 
barian again,  I  think,"  and  he  looked  around  the  room 
in  a  respectful  way,  "if  it  were  not  for  my  books.  I 
could  not  give  them  up."  Sometimes,  the  doctor  drew 
the  younger  man  out  on  some  topic,  medical  or  other- 
wise, while  he  sat  content  and  listened,  in  the  mean- 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  143 

time  studying  the  face  of  the  speaker.  The  elder  man 
nev.er  knew,  perhaps,  the  effect  of  his  kindly  interest, 
how  the  show  of  confidence,  the  word  of  commendation 
or  appreciation  he  spoke  to  his  yonng  companion  gave 
to  his  energies  new  ambition  and  to  his  purposes  new 
impulse. 

While  Lowell  sat  with  him  there  and  listened  to  his 
conversation  the  man's  character  gradually  unfolded 
before  him,  and  he  felt  there  was  no  man  among  all 
that  he  had  ever  met  wdiom  he  was  so  proud  to  know. 

Perhaps  it  had  begun  at  even  their  first  meeting;  at 
any  rate,  from  this  conference  a  subtle  sympathy 
sprung  up  between  them,  which  was  to  last  till  the  end. 

The  table  between  them  strewn  with  manuscript, 
while  here  and  there  some  few  sheets  neatly  written 
were  arranged  in  piles.  Seeing  that  Lowell  had  taken 
notice  of  it,  he  remarked:  "We  do  not  often  have  com- 
pany in  this  room.  I  suppose  for  Dorcas'  sake  I  ought 
to  make  apology  for  its  disarrangement.  This  rub- 
bish," he  said,  taking  up  from  the  table  one  of  the 
bunches  of  yellow  paper  which  he  had  pinned  together, 
"is  the  material  out  of  which  I  have  hoped  sometime  to 
produce  a  book."  He  spoke  with  a  pleasing  frankness, 
yet  in  a  sort  of  self -distrusting  way.  Lowell,  who  had 
been  considering  the  man's  talent,  but  more  than  that 
his  healthy  mentality,  being  thoroughly  interested  in 
the  disclosure  made,  said  heartily:  "The  world  is  to  be 
congratulated,  Doctor,  that  you  have  come  to  such  a 
decision."        1 

"I  thank  you,  I  am  sure,  for  your  kind  confidence  in 
my  ability,"  he  responded,  looking  smilingly  into  the 
young  face  opposite  ^^ut  whether  the  world  that  you 
mention  will  ever  see  the  finished  book  or  not  is  the 
question  that  takes  precedence.  I  cannot  say  that  I 
am  writing  a  book;  I  should  say  only  that  I  have  under- 
taken to  write  a  book.  Few  attempts  in  life,  I  imagine, 
are  so  instructive.  You  wonder  how  I  ever  came  to 
undertake  the  task?  As  there  was  some  method  in  it 
I  will  try  to  tell  you.     It  was  this  way:  In  the  begin- 


144  ^^  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

ning  I  grew  ambitious.  As  I  read  books,  I  fell  often 
to  wondering  at  the  author's  ideas.  You  see,  there 
seemed  to  me  to  be  always  something  lacking  in  the 
conception.  While  the  writer  has  the  unhindered  op- 
portunity to  make  his  hero  anything  he  wants  him  to 
Jbe,  in  all  literature  there  are  so  few  that  are  anything 
like  perfect  characters.  Well,  you  see,  I  began  to 
think  that  I  should  like  to  create  some  people;  whole- 
some, sensible  people — people  of  the  kind  that  ought 
to  be  created.  Then  I  planned  it  out  that  they  must 
have  patriotism  enough  to  master  their  native  tongue; 
no  matter  how  well  they  might  fill  requirements  in 
every  other  way,  I  would  permit  no  character  in  my 
book  who  could  not  at  least  speak  passable  English. 
When  first  my  notion  to  write  began  to  be  a  settled 
one,  I  thought  having  something  to  say  it  would  be  an 
easy  matter  to  say  it.  To  go  on  with  the  histor}^,.then 
I  began  writing  down-  my  thoughts,  some  of  which 
came  to  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  some  as  I  was 
riding  along  in  my  buggy,  some  in  the  sick  rooms  and  at 
other  extremely  inconvenient  times  for  penning  them. 
I  jotted  some  of  them  down,  though,"  he  said  laugh- 
ingly and  looking  up  and  down  the  littered  table,  ^^and 
at  present,  as  you  see,  I  am  driven  to  despondency  by 
my  very  surfeit  of  material.  Since  I  began  my  book 
I  have  realized,  too,  what  balky  affairs  words  are  to 
manage,  and  the  pertinacity  with  which  having  once 
become  acquainted  with  one  it  sticks  to  you  and  crowds 
out  even  its  more  worthy  relatives.  The  work  of  put- 
ting my  thoughts  into  a  readable  form  I  find  is  very 
much  like  catching  birds.  I  grip  some  of  them  by  the 
legs,  but  the  best  of  them  flit  away  before  I  get  them 
caged." 

"I  like  your  model  for  a  book.  Doctor/'  Lowell  said; 
"I  am  sure  you  have  a  clear  idea  of  what  a  book  ought 
to  be." 

"Yes,  but  I  have  found  that  the  idea  amounts  to  but 
little — that  is,  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  beween 
even  an  exalted  design  and  its  successful  fulfillment," 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  145 

"But,  Doctor/'  the  young  man  answered,  amusedly, 
'you  are  too  critical — you're  too  exacting  with  yourself. 
For  a  man  like  you  to  once  resolve  to  do  a  thing  is  to 
m*e  sufficient  guaranty  that  it  will  be  worthily  done." 

"I  know,''  the  other  replied,  "a  man  like  me  ought 
to  have  energ}'  enough  and  persistence  enough  to  man- 
age a  thing  he  has  been  sufficiently  daring  to  attempt, 
but,''  he  continued  with  an  odd  smile,  "you  do  not 
know,  you  haven't  tried  it,  you  can't  imagine  all  the 
difficulties  that  get  in  the  way.  Why,  even  after  I  got 
my  characters  created  and  modeled  just  after  the  style 
I  most  admired,  even  then  they  fall  far  short  of  my 
expectations,"  he  said  so  disconsolately  that  Lowell 
laughed.  "They  don't  seem  to  want  to  come  to  life; 
they  just  stalk  about  stiffly.  I  can't  rouse  them  to  any 
animation;  I  can't  get  them  into  their  proper  places; 
I  can't  get  them  to  say  the  things  I  want  them  to  say; 
they  won't  speak  with  any  sort  of  lucidity,"  he  com- 
plained. "Why,  they  barely  escape  absolute  imbecility, 
these  folks  of  whom  I  expected  to  be  so  proud.  I  be- 
gin now  to  become  entirely  alarmed  lest  though  I 
should  even  \YTite  the  book  to  the  end,  I  should  alto- 
gether miss  what  I  meant    to  say." 

That  evening  when  the  cousins  were  about  to  leave 
the  house  their  host  said: 

"Now  that  you  have  been  good  enough  to  come  down 
and  see  us  you  must  remain  a  few  days  at  least."  This 
being  arranged,  he  said  to  Lowell:  "In  the  morning 
you  can  go  with  me  on  my  rounds.  Even  if  I  have  no 
cases  that  interest  you,  you  will  enjoy  the  ride."  Then 
turning  in  their  direction,  he  added  cheerily:  "Dorcas, 
daughter,  you  must  have  something  planned  for  the 
afternoon." 

When  they  all  came  out  on  the  veranda  they  heard 
a  dog  whining  and  barking  with  increasing  desperation, 
and  when  the  barking  Avas  checked  a  little,  Tim,  mind- 
ful of  canine  longings,  went  up  to  Dorcas,  and,  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe  and  looking  up  into  her  face  and  trying 
10 


146  ^S  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

to  be  heedful  of  the  proper  words,  said:  "Listen,  Aunt 
Dorcas — say,  ma\^  I  bring  ^Eags'  in  ?-' 

Before  many  minutes,  "Eags*^  came  in,  the  very  per- 
sonification of  pleasure  and  delight,  and  rushed  up  to 
Lowell  ready,  it  seemed,  to  plunge  with  him  again  into 
any  danger,  the  one  object  of  his  life  being  seemingly 
to  establish  their  old  friendly  relations.  When  Tim, 
who  had  been  left  behind,  came  up  he  said  blithely:  "I 
tell  you  when  I  let  him  loose  he  didn't  wait  any  time; 
he  just  came  a-scootin';  he  wanted  to  see  you  so,''  and 
"Eags,"  true  as  steel  in  his  friendship,  continued  to 
bestow  his  attentions  upon  Lowell  lavishly  and  unre- 
mittingly until  dragged  away. 

As  the  young  men  were  about  to  leave  the  house.  Dr. 
Harding  said:  "Bring  a  wrap,  daughter;  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful out  of  doors  we  will  walk  a  little  way."  When 
they  stepped  to  the  ground  the  doctor  was  talking  to 
George  and  the  two  younger  people  walked  on,  side 
by  side.  On,  down,  they  continued  among  the  green 
leaves  and  the  buds  and  blossoms,  through  the  fra- 
grance of  the  heliotrope  and  the  magnolias  and  the  soft 
odor  of  the  violets.  The  magnificent  grounds  softened 
into  mellow,  mystic  beauty  by  the  moonlight,  now  and 
then,  the  sleeping  birds  twittering  among  the  branches, 
and  the  shadows  shifting  and  flickering  as  the  boughs 
of  the  trees  were  stirred  to  trepidation  by  the  mild 
south  wind. 

Though  at  last  under  the  same  roof,  through  all  the 
evening  which  he  had  spent  there,  Lowell  had  felt  far 
sundered  from  her,  and  it  mattered  not  what  the  pain 
and  the  weariness  attending  the  separation,  their  paths 
in  life  were  to  be  forever  apart.  Xow  he  wondered  at 
the  favorable  turn  of  fortune  that  had  placed  her  at 
his  side. 

"And  are  you  really  very  much  exhausted  after  your 
school  year?"  she  had  asked  him  in  a  low  tone. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  had  replied,  "though  were  I  ever  so 
weary,  an  hour  here  would  rest  me.  You  must  be  happy 
here,"  he  said  as  they  dreamily  wandered  on. 


A    STORY  OF  GALIF0R:MA  LIFE,  147 

When  they  had  stopped  a  moment  under  the  out- 
stretched linibs  of  the  oak,  she  answered  him  quietly: 
"I  am  happy  here/'  she  said.  "I  have  never  had  any 
other  home.  It  is  beautiful  here,  I  know  it;  but  it  is 
the  presence  of  my  father  that  makes  it  home  for  me. 
Happy!"  she  repeated,  and  her  reserve  seemed  to  van- 
ish. "Being  my  father's  daughter  I  ought,  no  matter 
where  I  was  placed,  to  be  the  happiest  child  that  ever 
the  sun  shone  down  upon." 

Lowell,  who  already  had  begun  to  feel  the  same  gen- 
tle sway  that  inspired  her  soulful  appreciation  of  her 
father,  answered  simply:  "I  do  not  wonder  at  your  ar- 
dor; I  agree  with  you.  The  place  is  lovely,  but  after 
all  it  is  the  character  of  its  owner  that  gives  to  it  its 
potent  attraction." 

They  had  gone  on  beyond  the  shadows  of  the  oak  and 
stepped  outside  the  outlined  shade  of  the  house,  and 
now  the  munificent  moon  poured  out  its  silver  flood 
unreservedly;  it  fell  amongst  the  rich,  dense  foliage 
and  revealed  its  vivid  greenness;  tremulous  and  shift- 
ing it  glinted  softly  among  the  shubbery,  brought  out 
with  vividness  the  gold  of  the  poppies,  the  rich  scar- 
let of  the  geraniums,  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  mar- 
guerites and  the  flaunting  purple  splendors  of  the  cine- 
raria. It  threw  upon  the  broad  walk  white  gleaming 
sprays  of  light  and  the  feathery  outline  of  the  delicate 
palm  trees  lay  traced  upon  the  grass,  the  shimmering 
lace-like  pattern  of  each  stem,  twig  and  leaf  marked 
out  with  microscopic  fidelity. 

When  they  reached  the  part  of  the  grounds  where 
they  were  to  separate  there  was  a  wide,  open  space 
where  the  moonbeams  came  unobstructed  through  be- 
tween the  trees,  and  the  girl,  a  little  apart  from  the 
others,  stood  a  moment  in  their  full  luster. 

The  soft  light  touched  her  hair  and  lingered  en- 
slaved among  its  golden  waves,  fell  upon  the  upturned 
face  and  lay  gleaming  among  the  folds  of  her  white 
dress.  Her  attitude  was  so  pleasing  and  she  was  so 
graceful  and  charming  in  her  full,  rounded  beauty  that 


148  ^8  <^0D  MADE  HER. 

to  those  who  looked  on,  the  complete  figure  seemed 
like  the  work  of  a  sculptor,  except  that  it  had  none  of 
the  marble-like  coldness,  for  even  under  the  tinting  of 
the  moonlight  the  skin  was  creamy  and  alive. 

With  Lowell,  that  white  picture  with  the  broad  palm 
leaves  for  a  background  remained  a  vivid  scene  to  the 
end  of  his  life. 

"We  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"'  Dr.  Harding  had 
called  out,  as  he  and  his  daughter  turned  to  go  back 
to  the  house,  and  the  young  man  went  away  intoxicated 
with  the  happiness  with  which  he  had  been  surfeited. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  149 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

The  next  afternoon  found  our  party  wandering  along 
the  banks  of  the  Pescadero.  The  little  stream  rose  in 
the  mountains  three  thousand  feet  or  more  above;  it 
fell  over  contracted  precipices,  and  again  wended  its  way 
through  the  canyon,  dense  with  pine  and  fir;  again  the 
rushing  water  found  its  way  through  dark  woods,  in 
which  were  little  openings,  remote,  secluded  nooks 
shut  safely  away  from  the  bustle  of  the  world. 

In  one  of  these  dells,  in  the  green  twilight  made  by 
the  hanging  boughs  of  two  immense  elms,  hung  a  rustic 
foot-bridge,  some  twelve  feet  above  the  water.  Not 
far  from  this  bridge  walled  in  by  the  bowlders  arid  in  a 
spot  where  the  grass  was  perennially  green,  they  sat 
down  to  evening  lunch. 

"I  must  talk  to  you,  stop  a  moment,"  George  said 
suddenly,  placing  himself  before  Doyt  as  the  two  in 
wending  their  way  down  the  stream  had  fallen  behind 
the  rest. 

She  turned  and  raised  her  soft  blue  eyes  to  his  face 
in  a  questioning  way. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  something  of  im- 
portance— that  is,''  he  added  slowly,  "it  is  of  import- 
ance to  me." 

At  different  times  during  the  day  George  had  seen 
her  talking  with  Lowell;  at  luncheon  Lowell  had  sat 
nearest  to  her  and  had  waited  upon  her,  and  George, 
who  had  been  eagerly  striving  to  bring  about  this  very 
occasion,  failing  still  had  said  to  himself  many  times 
during  the  afternoon:  "Perhaps  after  all  it  is  best  for 
me  not  to  see  her  alone." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  if  to  collect  himself,  then 
burst  out  abruptly:  "I  can't  go  on  living  this  way;  try 


150  -"^^  <^0D  MADE  HER. 

as  I  will  I  cannot  school  myself  to  submit  to  the  wait- 
ing and  the  suspense/^ 

Her  eyes  studied  his  face  with  close  scrutiny  and  she 
saw  that  it  was  white  as  ashes.  Stepping  a  little  dis- 
ance  from  him,  "What  has  made  this  unaccountable 
change  in  you,  George  ?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  seem  to  be  afraid  of  me  Doyt  if  I  tell  you/' 
he  said  pleadingly.  "1  can't  remain  around  here  tame- 
ly and  mutely  and  wait  for  what  is  sure  to  happen  if 
this  thing  goes  on.  You  don't  know  the  world,"  he 
added  bitterly,  "i^ou  can't  understand.  No  matter 
whether  you  care  for  people  or  not,  you  are  pleasant 
and  friendly  in  your  treatment  of  them  just  the  same. 
You  never  stop  to  think  how  they  are  going  to  take  it. 

The  vehemence  of  George's  manner  as  much  as  the 
wildness  of  his  words  startled  her,  and  she  stood  tremb- 
ling and  trying  to  understand;  her  young  brain  was  at 
work  until  she  almost  felt  its  throbs.  She  scanned 
the  tall,  handsome  fellow,  almost  stately  in  height,  as 
he  stood  there  before  her;  the  symmetrically  rounded 
figure;  features  of  pleasing  regularity,  and  she  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  pained,  yet  stern  and  deter- 
mined expression  of  the  face.  She  said  feelingly: 
"Why  do  you  talk  so  strangely  this  evening,  George  ?'' 
There  was  something  of  reproach  in  her  soft  voice,  as 
she  continued:  "You've  always  been  kind  to  me  be- 
fore?" 

Turning  his  face  aside,  "I  have  meant  to  be,  God 
knows,"  he  said  huskily,  then  taking  a  step  toward  her 
again:  "Yes,  and  things  might  have  gone  on  just  th^ 
same,"  he  added  impetuously  "and  we  might  have  en- 
joyed this  outdoor  life  together,  and  we  might  have 
read  and  studied  and  played  and  sung  together  if — if." 
Something  in  the  expression  of  the  sweet,  girlish  face 
made  him  hesjtate  to  speak  the  thought  he  had  in  mind. 

"Heaven  knows,  Doyt,"  he  went  on  in  a  more  tender 
tone,  "how  happy  we  might  have  been  together  if — if," 
and  again  prudence  made  him  falter. 


A   kSTORY  of  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  15I 

It  seemed  in  his  present  impassioned  state  the  words 
would  come  in  spite  of  his  decision  to  the  contrary,  for 
presently  he  said:  "I  did  not  ask  for  anything  better 
or  pleasanter  than  the  old  life  that  Ave  have  known  for 
months,  so  quiet  until,"  he  added  almost  savagely,  ^'he 
came  around  and  spoiled  the  comfort  of  it  all.''     He 
went  on  with  rapid  utterance,  "It  may  be  wrong  to 
speak  to  you  now  and  I  may  be  making  the  blunder  of 
my  life — it  may  be  only  a  proof  of  my  lack  of  endur- 
ance, evidence  of  my  want  of  judgment,  but  I  can't 
help  it,"  he  said  piteously,  "I  have  been  driven  to  it. 
Look  here,.Doyt,"  he  continued  with  fervid  voice,  "I 
love  you;  but  for  him,  I  should  not  have  told  you  now. 
He  has  forced  me  to  this- — that  is,  it  is  his  fault  that 
my  hoarded  secret  has  been  dragged  from  me,  but  that 
does  not  alter  the  truth  of  it.     I  love  you  as  man  never 
loved  woman  before.     Perhaps  it  is  because,  Doyt,"  he 
said,  the  tears  coming  into  his  eyes,  "perhaps  it  is  be^ 
cause  man  never  had  such  a  woman  to  love  before — -I 
must   make    you    comprehend;  I  love  you  better  than 
anything  else,  better  than  all  things  else.     Position  is 
nothing,  money  is  nothing,  standing  is  nothing,  learn- 
ing is  nothing,  only,  Doyt,  as  it  makes  me  perhaps  more 
worthy    of    you.     Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way,"  he 
added,  supplicatingly.     "If  I  thought  there    was    no 
hope  of  winning  you  sometime,  there'd  be  nothing  more 
in  life  for  me.     I  should  end  it  all  right  here.     But  tell 
me,  Doyt,  darling,  tell  me  that  some  day,  ever  so  far 
away,  you  know,  some  day  when  your  father  consents 
to  part  with  you,  that  you  will  be  mine?" 

Something  in  the  young  girl's  manner  held  him  at  a 
distance.  She  stood  quiet;  she  had  pulled  down  one  of 
the  small  branches  of  the  tree  near  and  was  slowly 
picking  off  the  leaves  one  by  one  and  dropping  them 
to  the  ground. 

He  waited— she  said  nothing  but  stood,  seemmgly 
trying  to  gain  perfect  self-command. 

He  spoke  agaiij,  in  a  voice  husky  with  emotion;  he 
said,  and  the  words  came  more  slowly  now:  "Doyt,  if 


152  ^^  ^(^D  MADE  HER. 

there  is  anything  you  want  me  to  do' — anything  you 
want  me  to  be — I'll — I'll  strive  for  it/' 

At  last  the  ripe  lips  moved.  There  was  trouble  in 
the  sweet  face  but  her  voice  was  steadied  and  soft. 
"No/'  she  said  slowly  and  pronouncing  each  word 
with  accurate  distinctness,  "you  are  right  as  you 
are."  She  stood,  still  culling  and  dropping  the  leaves. 
"I  do  not  want  you  to  attempt  any  change  for  me. 
From  my  heart,  George,  I  appreciate  the  offer  you 
have  made  me";  she  said,  "I  should  be  proud  of  your 
love;  any  girl  might  feel  herself  honored  by  what  you 
offer  me." 

"Then  you  do  believe  me?"  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"I  believe  you,  George,  yes,  though  I  never  thought 
abou*t  it  before.     I  believe  you  love  me." 

She  spoke  so  impassionately  that  he  interrupted  her 
again:  "Don't  tell  me  'no,'"  he  cried  with  deep  agita- 
tion. "Look  deep  down  into  your  heart  first,  Doyt — 
study  its  feelings.  Eemember  this  is  not  the  whim  of 
a  moment;  I  offer  you  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 
Don't  think  I  can  ever  change,  Doyt;  it  is  not  in  my 
nature." 

"I  am  not  indifferent  to  you,  George."  She  spoke 
the  words  slowly,  stopping  as  if  to  analyze  her  feeling 
that  she  might  be  sure  she  spoke  truthfully.  "I  re- 
member gratefully  how  solicitous  you  have  been  for 
my  pleasure  and  happiness;  I  recall  now  all  your  deli- 
cate consideration,  all  your  little  acts  of  thoughtful- 
ness."  She  added  in  a  saddened  tone,  "It  never  oc- 
curred to  me  how  you  meant  them.  I  think  now, 
George,  that  I  have  done  wrong,"  she  went  on  again, 
"but  it  was  pleasant  to  be  cared  for;  it  was  pleasant  to 
be  with  you.  I  don't  know  how  to  explain.  Pardon 
me,  George,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes  to  his  face,  "but 
I  think  I  have  looked  upon  you  as  a  brother.  I  have 
never  had  a  brother  you,  know\" 

She  saw  that  he  suffered  and  with  a  desire  to  soothe 
his  pain  she  talked  on:  "It  would  be  pleasant  for  me 
to  be  your  sister  always.     I  never  thought  of  your 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  153 

wasting  a  thought  on  me  beyond  that,  that  is,  George, 
I  never  dreamed  of  your  intense  nature." 

"Doyf,  I  tell  you/'  he  broke  in  impatiently,  "I  tell 
you  I  have  been  driven  to  this.  I  would  have  been 
satisfied  to  remain  as  we  were  if  he  — " 

Hesitating  again  she  took  up  the  unfinished  sen- 
tence: 

"You  mean  Lowell,  I  suppose,"  she  said  quietly,  then 
added,  "I  do  not  see  how  I  can  be  wrong  in  treating 
Lowell  kindly." 

Owing  to  the  indulgence  wdiich  he  imagined  was 
evident  in  her  tone  he  hardly  dared  trust  himself  to 
speak,  but  at  last  with  a  strong  attempt  at  carelessness, 
he  said:  "I  should  not  presume  to  be  your  arbiter  in 
regard  to  your  manner  in  the  treatment  of  others  Par- 
don me,  Doyt,  if  I  have  outstepped  my  privileges." 
Then  excitedly,  he  added:  "If  I  am  impolite,  rude,  mad, 
even,  Doyt,  it  is  love  for  you  that  has  made  me  so." 

"George,  I  would  do  anything  to  help  you — to  serve 
you- — believe  me.'' 

Eaising  his  head  quickly  he  looked  into  her  eyes, 
full  of  hope,  when  she  said  quickly:  "But  not  what  you 
ask  of  me,  not  that;  my  father  would  never  give  me 
up,"  and  the  great  tears  filled  the  blue  eyes  as  she  con- 
tinued with  intense  feeling:  "I  could  never,  never, 
never  leave  him." 

He  advanced  a  step  toward  her.  "I  have  made  you 
su'ffer,"  he  responded  tenderly.  "I  know  something 
about  the  devotion  your  father  has  for  you,  Doyt.  I 
know  something  about  your  preciousness  to  him,"  he 
said.  "I  know  it;  he  will  not  give  you  up,  that  is,  he 
will  not  part  with  you  now.  I  do  not  expect  it.  But 
let  me  go  to  him  and  ask  him,  and,  Doyt,  promise,"  he 
went  on  importunately,  "Oh,  promise  me  that  you  will 
be  mine  sometime  if  he  consents  to  it." 

The  soft  light  of  pity  was  beaming  in  the  beautiful 
face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  again  to  his,  but  she  an- 
swered him  with  steadiness:  "George,  I  cannot  promise. 


154  ^4>8  GOD  MADE  HER. 

There  they  are  calling  me;"'  she  said,  listening.  ''They 
are  ready  to  go;  we  have  stopped  here  a  long  time." 

They  went  on  down  the  little  stream  together  amid 
the  silence  and  the  solitude,  the  evergreens  rustling  on 
either  hand.  Now  and  then  a  little  breeze  stirred  the 
leaves  of  madrones,  here  and  there  the  golden  rays  of 
the  sun  peeped  through  the  thick  branches  and  danced 
among  the  ripples.  A  thrush  in  a  tree  near  chirped 
the  first  notes  of  its  evening  song;  little  brown  wrens 
flew  hither  and  thither  close  to  their  path,  and  with  all 
the  sudden  sorrow  that  had  come  upon  her,  with  all  the 
pain  and  agitation  at  her  heart,  the  little  brook  sang 
on  the  same,  making  its  way  over  shinning  pebbles  and 
through  turns  and  curves. 

To  herself  she  said  pathetically,  as  she  watched  it: 
"It  runs  its  merry  course  now.  It  is  happy  and  glad. 
How  little  it  knows  of  the  abvss  that  may  lie  just  be- 
fore it!" 

Such  a  change  the  revelation  of  the  last  few  minutes 
had  made  in  her  life;  the  days  of  her  own  happiness 
seemed  now  to  be  removed  from  her,  ages  away. 

They  all  rode  home  together  in  the  dusk  of  the  even- 
ing, and  the  two  young  men  driving  on  toward  the 
town,  bade  the  others  goodnight  at  the  branching  of 
the  avenue. 

At  the  dinner-table  her  father  said  in  a  tone  of  tjen- 
derness:  "Doyt,  daughter,  you  do  not  eat;  your  face  is 
flushed.  Let  me  see  if  you  are  feverish,"  he  added 
with  some  solicitude,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"I  am  well,  father;  you'll  find  I  am  perfectly  well." 

Noticing  that  the  attention  of  the  others  was  at- 
tracted she  asserted  again :  "I  assure  you  all  that  I  never 
was  in  better  health,"  and  those  about  the  table  saw  the 
cherry  lips  part  and  the  loved  face  light  up  with  its 
usual  winning  brightness. 

That  night  when  she  had  gone  to  her  own  room, 
after  she  had  closed  the  door  which  connected  it  with 
the  one  occupied  by  Dorcas,  she  began  walking  up  and 
down.     All  her  faculties  seemed  aroused  and  she  could 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  155 

hardly  compose  herself  to  lie  down  at  all.  A  strange 
sensation  had  taken  possession  of  her;  a  throb  of  fear 
that  ran  through  all  her  frame,  a  feeling  that  with  the 
strongest  effort  of  her  healthy  nature  she  could  not 
throw  off,  a  dread  of  evil  to  come;  evil  which  no  earthly 
power  could  avert.  She  passed  the  night  in  such  rest- 
lessness, as  she  in  her  complete  healthfulness  had  never 
known,  and  though  the  sun  was  shining  outside  and 
lighting  up  the  room  to  ruddy  brilliancy,  she  awoke 
in  the  morning  for  the  first  time  to  a  sense  of  clieer- 
lessness  of  life. 


156  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEE  XXXII. 

Lowell  went  back  to  the  city  that  evening  and  for 
some  time  the  family  saw  nothing  of  George. 

The  days  that  passed  in  the  meantime  were  harrow- 
ing ones  to  Doyt.  She  almost  lived  out  of  doors.  She 
took  long  rides,  sometimes  in  new  directions  and  with 
only  the  honnds  for  compan}',  trying  to  regain  the 
healthful  tone  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed.  She 
was  in  suspense  as  to  whether  George  would  go  to  her 
father  or  not.  As  the  affair  stood  now,  though,  she 
had  not  encouraged  him  and  had  promised  nothing,  yet 
she  ielt  in  a  way  bound  until  her  father  refused  to  give 
consent.  Though  George  did  not  appear  she  thought 
in  her  feverish  anxiety  that  every  moment  of  delay  was 
perilous.  A  hundred  times  she  had  resolved  to  tell  her 
farhor;  a  score  of  times  gathering  her  forces  for  the 
ordeul  she  had  gone  to  him,  but  when  she  had  looked 
up  into  that  tender  face  the  thought  of  the  beautiful 
smoothness  of  their  lives  and  of  the  shock  it  would  be 
to  him  to  know,  her  throat  filled  and  she  found  herself 
disqualified  for  speech.  So  the  days  wore  on  and  of 
the  theme  which  gave  her  constant  thought  she  never 
spoke.  Driven  to  extremity  by  what  she  considered 
the  unsettled  condition  of  affairs,  she  was  about  to  go 
to  J3orcas  for  both  direction  and  comfort,  when  a  note 
came  from  George  and  that  evening  her  father  received 
him  in  the  library. 

The  young  man  tried  to  make  the  situation  clear  to 
the  doctor  in  a  few  direct  words:  how  he  had  the 
temerity  to  ask  for  his  daughter's  hand;  how  while 
she  had  not  promised,  he  held  it  was  because  she  had 
not  felt  at  liberty  to  do  so  on  account  of  her  filial  love 
and  loyalty.     She  had  not  refused,  he  said,  and  he, 


A  STOKi    OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  157 

felt  that  in  honor  he  should  address  the  father  before 
seeking  her  again. 

The  doctor  heard  him  through,  and  when  he  fully 
comprehended  what  was  asked  of  him  the  strong  man 
staggered  as  though  he  had  received  a  blow.  In  his 
agony  he  paced  up  and  down  the  wide  room  and  for 
the  moment  his  benignant  face  was  almost  bloodless. 
He  involuntarily  pictured  his  melancholy  home; 
hushed  and  darkened,  the  light  of  it  gone.  When  he 
stopped  in  front  of  where  the  young  man  sat  and 
looked  him  over,  his  thought  w^as,  "Does  he  compre- 
hend the  pain  he  deals?'' 

His  first  words,  spoken  in  a  husky  voice,  were:  "My 
God!  Do  you  know  what  you  ask  ?  You  would  not  rob 
me  of  my  child,"  he  added  almost  fiercely,  for  at  the 
time  it  seemed  to  him  the  transgression  of  all  law  and 
right.  "For  what,"  he  said  within  him,  "had  any 
living  being  to  do  with  her  but  himself?  How  could 
any  have  a  stronger  claim  than  he?" 

As  he  had  watched  her  growing  toward  beautiful 
maturity  before  his  eyes  he  had  held  a  premonition  of 
this;  he  had  known  that  the  time  might  come  when  she 
would  go  from  him  to  a  separate  existence,  but  the  man 
of  healthful  mind  and  cheerful  philosophy  had  swept 
aside  the  momentary  anxiety  as  something  too  pain- 
ful to  dwell  upon.  In  his  moments  of  greatest  dread 
he  had  hoped  that  there  might  be  some  kindly  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  event  to  help  him  to  be 
resigned.  But  now  it  seemed  that  the  time  had  come 
when  he  could  no  longer,  for  Iiis  present  peace,  judi- 
ciously put  the  matter  away  for  further  consideration, 
neither  could  he,  looking  at  it  in  any  light,  find  the 
palliating  circumstances  for  which  he  had  hoped. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  to  face  the  terrible  truth. 
Time  and  again  he  had  said  to  himself:  "What  is 
there  in  me  that  I  should  give  myself  a  second  thought, 
and  yet  what  is  my  life  worth  without  her?"  But  de- 
liberating upon  the  matter  all  that  he  dreaded  of 
loneliness  weighed  nothing  with  him.     He  slowly  re- 


158  ^^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

pressed  every  feeling  strictly  bis  own,  all  that  he  con- 
sidered was  her  happiness,  her  good.  Gaining  a  bet- 
ter possession  of  himself  he  tried  to  put  a  fair  esti- 
mate upon  the  conditions. 

These  were  tlie  thoughts  that  passed  through  his 
mind. 

He  had  had  such  experience  in  caring  for  her,  he  had 
so  devotedly  studied  her  needs  and  sought  out  what 
would  satisfy  them,  how  could  any  unskilled  hand  take 
his  place?  He  had  been  father  and  mother  to  her  in 
one,  and  every  day  through  all  her  helpless  years  had 
sanctified  the  tie,  and  growing  stronger  had  inspired 
him  to  more  thorough  research,  deeper  solicitude  and 
greater  devotion.  How  could  an  alien  hand  exert  such 
prudence  and  skill?  Could  she  ever  find  such  safety 
in  any  other  guardianship  ? 

While  he  respected  the  young  man  who  stood  there 
in  his  presence,  deferentially  suing  for  his  daughter's 
hand;  while  in  the  months  past  he  had  found  him 
pleasant  company;  while  he  admired  him  even — his  in- 
stincts rebelled.  Once  during  the  meeting,  in  answer 
to  something  George  had  urged,  he  had  said:  "At  most, 
she  can  have  only  a  child's  regard  for  you."  The  con- 
ference- was  not  of  long  duration.  He  spoke  gravely 
but  with  strange  gentleness,  as  at  parting  he  said:  "I 
cannot  answer  you  now;  after  1  have  seen  my  daugh- 
ter I  will  talk  with  you  again." 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  159 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

Soon  after  George's  departure  the  doctor  drove  away 
and  that  night,  not  long  after  his  arrival  at  home,  he 
called  his  danghter,  and  together  they  walked  through 
the  lihrary  and  on  into  the  stndy  beyond. 

Plis  voice  was  quiet  and  his  manner  toward  her  even 
gentler  than  usual,  but  when  she  looked  up  into  his 
face  she  knew  by  its  drawn  look  that  a  conflict  was 
going  on  within  him. 

He  settled  himself  once  again  in  the  wide  armchair 
and  with  her  old  childish  grace  she  dropped  on  the 
stool  at  his  feet  and  laid  her  folded  arms  upon  his 
knee.  He  spoke  to  her  nov/  in  his  customary  deli- 
cately reserved  way.  As  he  looked  upon  her  now  he 
realized  as  he  never  had  done  before  that  she  was 
wondrously  beautiful. 

All  the  time  of  their  association  together,  all  the 
years  of  her  sunny  life  came  before  him  now  in  quick 
review.  She  was  but  a  child  to  him  still.  Sitting  in 
her  old  place  at  his  feet,  she  too,  recalled  it  all  and  the 
peaceful  sweetness  of  it. 

Her  girl  heart  was  almost  bursting  with  the  realiza- 
tion that  that  peaceful  time  was  now  far  away.  The 
storm  through  which  she  had  passed  had  left  its  marks 
upon  her.  She  felt  tht  she  could  never  be  a  child 
again.  This  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had 
dreaded  to  meet  her  father;  the  first  time  that  she  had 
felt  uncomfortable  in  his  presence,  and  she  felt  bitterly 
toward  George  that  he  had  so  destroyed  the  peaceful 
harmony  of  their  lives.  When  her  father  spoke  at  last 
there  was  a  world  of  feeling  in  his  voice: 

"In  the  perfect  happiness  of  possession,"  he  said, 
"I  have  been  blind,  my  daughter.  I  have  not  been  able 
to  realize  but  that  our  life  here  could  go  on  forever." 


]  (JO  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

She  saw  the  vigorous  man  stop  as  if  to  gather 
strength  for  what  he  had  to  do.  When  he  spoke  again 
the  very  tone  of  his  voice  tore  her  heart.  In  all  the 
years  of  her  life  he  had  never  spoken  to  her  with  such 
earnestness  hefore.  He  said:  "George  has  heen  to  me, 
my  child;  he  has  asked  me  to  give  into  his  care  my 
most  precious  possession." 

She  smiled  up  into  his  face.  At  the  moment  she  for- 
got all  else.  His  love  for  her  and  the  assurance  of  it 
was  more  than  all  the  world  beside. 

"I  will  not  think  of  myself  in  this  matter,"  he  con- 
tinued with  strong  effort.  "Tell  me  if  what  George 
has  asked  of  me  is  pleasing  to  you,"  and  the  troubled, 
anxious  face  that  bent  above  her  awaited  her  reply. 

Her  one  desire  having  been  to  shield  him  from  sor- 
rows, out  of  the  fullness  of  her  young  heart,  she  spoke: 
"If  I  could  only  have  prevented  his  going  to  you, 
father!  If  he  only  would  have  listened  to  me!  Oh, 
how  I  wish  he  had  not  troubled  you,"  she  said  in  a 
broken  voice,  her  hand  laid  on  his  arm.  "I  tried  to 
dissuade  him  but  he  was  willful  and  determined;  he 
would  not  listen." 

Her  father  did  not  speak;  as  she  looked  at  him  he 
sat  bending  forward,  the  whole  strength  of  his  nature 
seeming  to  be  concentrated  into  the  one  sense  of 
listening. 

"We  have  always  been  so  happy  here  together, 
father,  and  if  I  had  known  how  to  prevent  it,  father, 
I  should  never  have  allowed  him  to  bring  this  dread- 
ful trouble  on  you.  Don't  mind  it  so  much  father"; 
she  uttered  the  words  anxiously,  "You  are  taking  it 
harder  even  that  I  anticipated." 

"Doyt,  daughter,"  he  asked  hurriedly,  and  scrutiniz- 
ing her  face  closely,  "and  don't  you  want  to  become 
George  Moulton's  wife?" 

He  had  gathered  from  what  the  young  man  had  said 
during  their  interview  that  she  would  have  accepted 
his  proffered  love,  if  first  only  she  had  possessed  her 
father's    permission.     He    had   feared  that    she  cared 


A  8T0RY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  161 

deeply  for  him  and  this  Avas  the  phase  of  the  case  that 
loomed  up  dark  and  menacing.  While  every  impulse 
of  his  nature  rose  in  rebellion  against  the  proposition 
George  had  made,  he  had  feared  that  to  oppose  it  would 
be  going  against  her  will.  He  did  not  have  to  wait  for 
an  answer. 

"Xo,  father,  no.  Why  did  you  think  so?  J^o,"  she 
added  emphaticallv.  "1  do  not  love  him,  not  in  the 
least." 

It  was  then  that  the  great  tears  held  back  so  long 
came  rushing  up  to  her  eyes. 

Did  her  father  believe  that  she  was  willing  to  go 
away  and  leave  him?  There  was  no  subject  on  which 
it  seemed  then  that  she  could  have  been  so  exquisitely 
sensitive. 

"I  will  never  leave  you,  father,"  she  cried  out  im- 
petu;Ously. 

He  took  her  hand  and  laid  it  gently  against  his 
cheek  and  placed  his  own  above  it,  and  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  pretty  flushed  face,  smilingly  he  said: 

"^ly  daughter,  I  am  glad.  My  life  would  be  dull 
and  lonely,  indeed,  if  you  were  to  leave  me,"  he  said 
with  infinite  tenderness  of  voice. 

"I  am  relieved  to  know  that  you  have  no  strong  feel- 
ing in  the  matter.  While  I  should  not  like  to  oppose 
you,  I  should  be  forced  to  use  my  judgment.  It  would 
be  hard  for  me  to  give  my  consent.  George  has  his 
merits,  yes,  but,"  pressing  the  hand  closer,  "I  do  not 
feel  that  I  could  trust  you  to  his  care." 

For  a  time  Doyt  did  not  speak.  She  was  studying 
over  what  her  father  had  unfolded  to  her  of  his  inter- 
view with  George.  Had  treachery  and  falsehood  en- 
tered into  it?  Had  George,  to  effect  his  ends,  pur- 
posely deceived  her  father?  Had  she  had  a  sudden 
insight  into  a  dark  nature? 

Again,  as  on  that  fateful  day,  though  now  she  was 
under    the  protection    of    home,  close    even    by    her 
father^s  side,  an  awful  fear  seized  her. 
11 


162  ^-S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

With  perfect  artlessless  she  tried  to  tell  her  father 
of  George's  sudden  and  vehement  declaration  of  devo- 
tion to  her  and  to  give  him  an  idea  of  what  she  had 
tried  to  say  to  him  in  return, 

"He  would  not  allow  me  to  say  'no/  father,  but 
wildly  insisted  on  encouragement,  for  the  future  at 
least/'  She  drew  close  to  her  fathers  knee.  To  take 
him  at  last  into  her  confidence  was  such  a  relief. 

"While  I  had  not  the  least  thought  of  accepting  him, 
father,"  she  said,  "his  whole  manner  was  so  excited 
and  so  impetuous  that  I  could  not  reason  with  him.  I 
have  lost  my  peace  of  mind  over  it,  father.  I  pity 
George,"  she  went  on  thoughtfully;  "he  seemed  to 
be  so  thoroughly  in  earnest  that  I  felt  that  it  was  al- 
most dangerous  to  refuse  him."  She  added  in  a  lower 
tone:  "I  am  sometimes  afraid  that  he  will  do. himself 
harm.  Oh,  father,  "she  concluded,  laying  her  head 
upon  his  knee,  "everything  is  in  a  dreadful  state." 

Dr.  Harding  could  not  agree  with  her.  In  her  ex- 
planation he  had  found  great  comfort.  So  his  daugh- 
ter's heart  was  not  involved,  the  problem  seemed  to 
him  easy  of  solution. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  saw  George,  according  to  ap- 
pointment. The  doctor  explained  to  him  the  situation 
as  he  had  found  it,  and  to  his  surprise  the  young  man 
received  the  refusal  of  the  hand  for  which  he  had  sued 
with  perfect  self-control,  the  father  assuring  him  that 
he  would  give  his  consent  to  her  bethrothal  to  no  one 
until  she  had  reached  maturer  years. 

George  plead  earnestly  with  the  doctor  for  some 
sort  of  promise  of  consent  when  she  would  be  older. 
All  he  asked  for  was  the  hope  that  sometime  he  might 
win  her,  assuring  him  that  his  love  for  her  would  go  on 
unchangingly. 

When  he  found  that  he  urged  the  matter  fruitlessly, 
as  the  doctor  Avould  neither  bind  himself  nor  his 
daughter  by  any  sort  of  pledge,  he  hid  entirely  the 
mad  clashing  within  him,  and  took  his  departure  from 
the  house  in  his  usual  polished  and  affable  manner. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  1^3 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Lowell  groaned  within  him  sometimes  over  the  stern- 
ness of  school  life,  with  its  constant  drain  of  vital 
force;  the  rigidity  that  kept  him  always  tied  to  one 
place  and  steadily  bound  to  one  line  of  thought,  that 
held  him  to  imperative  rules.  He  felt  that  he  was 
vindictively  stinted  in  recreation  and  austerely  denied 
all  purely  natural  expansion.  Sometimes,  all  unpre- 
meditated, his  rebelling  mind  took  truant  intermission 
and  sped  away  to  a  charmed  spot  where  the  odor  of  the 
flowers  and  the  fragrance  of  the  trees,  always  grateful, 
where  the  breezes  were  ever  crispy  and  sea-laden,  and 
where  the  eternal  summer  reigned  supreme. 

Imagination  is  capricious  and  is  apt  to  play  us  false; 
it  gives  touches  of  color  to  dull  scenes  and  draws  lines 
of  beauty  never  visible  to  the  natural  eye. 

When  vacation  time  came  again  and  Lowell  ap- 
proached Oaklawn  in  person,  he  wondered  whether  he 
had  altogether  idealized  the  place,  or  whether  he 
should  find  in  it  the  heavenly  serene  attraction  of 
which  he  had  dreamed. 

It  was  a  quiet  September  day  as  the  young  man 
moved  along  under  the  evergreens  that  beautified  the 
roadway;  he  took  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  might  have 
been  easily  recognized  by  his  athletic  figure,  his  alert 
step,  his  self-dependent  air,  his  bared  brow  softened 
by  the  wavy  brown  locks,  and  by  his  gladsome  glowing 
face. 

Amid  the  luxuriant  nature  about  him  he  could  find 
no  room  for  disappointment.  It  seemed  more  than  a 
realization  of  his  fairy  dream.  The  orchards  on  either 
side,  with  their  multiplied  varieties  of  ripened  fruit, 
were   teeming  with   plentitude.     As  he  went  up   the 


164  ^^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

avenue  the  grass  which  sloped  clown  to  the  driveway 
was  glowingly  green;  the  flexible  limbs  of  the  tropical 
trees  bent  above  his  head;  birds  perched  daintily  on 
their  topmost  branches  poured  forth  ecstatic  floods  of 
song;  the  gorgeous  sunlight  sifted  through  the  leafy 
tree-tops  and  at  the  openings  fell  aslant  on  the  grass; 
the  afternoon  breeze  gently  moved  the  clustered  roses 
and  scattered  their  fragrance  on  the  air.  As  he  came 
nearer  the  house^  at  one  side  was  a  wall  of  blue  grapes 
and  a  perfect  riot  of  color  among  the  flowers.  There 
were  beds,  borders,  belts,  zones,  sheets,  draperies,  fes- 
toons, tangles  of  them  with  variegated  tintings;  the 
snowy  petals  overlapping  the  burning  red,  the  royal 
purple,  the  ruddy  gold,  the  flaming  yellow,  the  in- 
tensest  blue. 

A  few  minutes  only  of  waiting  in  the  long  room 
into  which  he  had  been  shown  and  the  whole  sweet 
vision  of  his  bright  mind  was  complete;  for  there  in 
a  chair  a  little  way  off,  opposite  to  him,  she  sat — the 
girl  of  his  dreams.  She  wore  a  soft  dress  of  white; 
there  were  fluffs  of  lace  about  the  rounded  throat; 
there  was  a  bunch  of  nodding  pink  rose-buds  pinned 
at  the  breast;  the  smooth,  dimpled  hand  was  lying 
lightly  on  the  arm  of  the  chair;  the  waving  hair,  with 
its  gleams  of  golden  brightness,  clustered  softly  about 
the  white  temples,  and  the  rosy,  pleasant  face  with 
its  curving  cheeks  and  its  bhie  wells  of  eyes  was  turned 
toward  his  own. 

Lowell  spoke  only  in  shy,  brief  phrases,  yet  his  soul 
was  full;  there  was  enough  in  it  to  have  inspired  him 
to  ancient  Grecian  eloquence.  He  felt  in  her  presence 
again,  the  same  subtle  but  overpowering  attraction 
which  had  possessed  him  when  he  first  saw  her. 

Her  smiling  lips  had  parted.  He  heard  her  say,  and 
each  sentence  had  ended  in  soft  cadence:  "And  so 
college  is  closed?"' 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"And  you  did  not  come  down  till  vacation?" 

"Xo,"  he  returned. 


A  .STORT  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  1^5 

She  placed  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
leaning,  covered  her  chin  with  her  hand. 

"It  has  been  a  long  time/^  she  said  naively. 

He  received  what  she  said  with  surprise  and  while 
he  was  trying  to  determine  how  much  meaning  her 
words  had,  she  talked  on,  and  what  she  said  was  so 
magically  fresh,  so  full  of  youthful  vigor;  her  atti- 
tude was  so  graceful,  yet  so  absolutely  unstudied;  she 
was  so  charmingly  entertaining;  so  childlike  in  taste, 
yet  so  womanly  in  thought;  so  piquant  and  so  original, 
that  after  his  experience  with  city  life,  her  presence  was 
to  him  like  a  flight  in  the  free  sunshine  to  the  caged 
bird,  or  like  a  breath  from*  the  sea  after  being  shut  in 
the  vitiated  air  of  a  foul  prison. 

Once  looking  out  over  the  quiet  grounds  and  up 
through  the  trees,  Lowell  said:  "The  peace  itself  is  so 
inviting — it  makes  such  an  impression  upon  my  mind 
that  it  not  only  pleads  w^ith  me  to  come  but  tempts 
me  to  remain."  Looking  into  her  face,  he  remarked 
modestly:  "I  am  trying  to  train  myself  to  proper 
gratitude  that  I  have  your  gracious  permission  to 
come  into  your  presence  at  all." 

Smiling,  she  answered:  "Oh,  I  am  glad  you  like  it. 
I  haven't  seen  very  much  of  the  world  and  I  love  my 
home.  Right  here  I  have  spent  all  my  happy  life. 
To  be  sure,  I  lost  my  mother,  but  it  has  been  the  work 
of  my  father  and  Aunt  Dorcas  to  keep  all  sorrow  from 
me,  and  to  make  up  to  me,  in  everv  way  possible,  my 
loss." 

Looking  out  over  the  lawn,  she  said:  "I  have  grown 
up  along  with  the  trees  of  the  place.  I  remember," 
she  repeated,  pointing.  "I  remember  when  my  father 
set  out  that  tree  there  and  that  tall  one  yonder;  just 
see  how  high  it  has  grown.  From  where  you  sit," 
she  said,  watching  earnestly  his  motions,  "you  will 
have  to  bend  your  head  low  down  to  see  the  top.  And 
just  to  think,"  she  added  slowly,  and  in  a  tone  of 
deepest  seriousness,  "I  have  been  living  all  the  years 


IQQ  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

that  it  has  taken  that  tree  to  reach  that  enormous 
height." 

The  contrast  between  the  tone  she  used  and  her  looks 
at  the  time  was  inexpressibly  amusing  and  her  com- 
panion laughed.  What  he  was  thinking  of  was:  "It 
is  the  perfect  naturalness  of  the  place  that  makes  it 
so  refreshing.  There's  no  nonsense  or  affectation 
about  an3^thing  here.'' 

What  he  said  a  moment  later  was:  ''There  is  some- 
thing so  new  to  me  in  it  all;  something  hard  to  ex- 
plain. You  seem  here  to  have  learned  how  to  live; 
to  be  in  some  way  floating  placidly  down  the  stream, 
skillfully  avoiding  all  the  rt)cks  and  shoals." 

"0,  Tlike  to  see  things  as  other  people  see  them," 
she  said  with  a  pretty  air  of  gratification,  ''because  then 
1  know  whether  I  have  been  thinking  aright  or  not," 
she  explained.  She  had  been  sitting  demurely  far  back 
in  her  chair. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  appearance  of  his  magnifi- 
cent strength,  of  the  sincerity  of  his  manner,  as  he 
talked.  She  was  also  considering  what  he  said,  for 
when  she  had  seen  the  turmoil  and  dissatisfaction  and 
the  misery  in  some  of  the  homes  to  which  she  had 
gone  with  her  father,  she  herself  had  felt  the  same 
contrast  to  her  own  surroundings,  of  which  he  spoke.. 
There  was  a  knitting  of  the  pretty  white  brow  as  she 
remarked: 

"There  is  a  difference;  I  have  noticed  it.  But  what 
is  the  strangest  part  of  it,  most  people  do  not  seem 
to  know  that  there  is  a  calm  current;  they  don't  seem 
to  look  for  it.  They  don't  expect  anything  else  ex- 
cept to  bump  against  rocks  and  shoals." 

The  two  had  left  the  drawing-room  and,  after 
sauntering  awhile  about  the  grounds,  had  sat  down  to- 
gether on  the  bench  beneath  the  old  oak  tree. 

The  pure  sunlight  in  her  own  nature  was  so  plainly 
visible  as  once  when  they  were  talking  on  the  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  assuming  a  wise  air,  she  said: 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  167 

"I  think  the  reason  that  people  are  miserable,  is  be- 
cause they  concentrate  their  minds  upon  just  one  thing 
and  are  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  to  everything  else; 
then,  you  see,  if  they  fail  to  get  that  one  thing,  or  pos- 
sessing, lose  it,  the  whole  beautiful  world  to  them  is  a 
blank.  It  is  such  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  don't  you 
think  so  ?"  she  said,  looking  into  his  face.  "To  make 
life  unhappy,  I  mean;  to  shut  ourselves  out  from  the 
light,  the  beauty,  the  fragrance  of  the  world;  to  allow 
ourselves  to  be  miserable  when  close  around  us  is  every- 
thing we  need;  where  there  is  so  much  joy,  so  much 
music,  so  much  grandeur,  where  the  sun  is  so  warm, 
the  flowers  so  beautiful,  the  breeze  so  clean,  the  fruit 
so  abundant.'' 

She  raised  her  eyes  reverently,  and  in  a  soft,  liquid 
voice,  added  "and  God  is  so  good." 

With  this  newly  awakened  mind,  Lowell  was  so  cap- 
tivated, that  he  intently  listened.  The  young,  beauti- 
ful girl,  winning  from  her  very  artlessness  and  inno- 
cence, sitting  there  near  him  in  the  green  shadow  of 
the  oak,  was  more  like  a  dream  picture  than  a  reality. 
Was  it  possible  that  she  was  able  to  teach  him  a  phil- 
osophy deeper  and  of  more  value  than  any  that  he  had 
ever  learned  from  Kant  or  Kames? 

Urged  on  by  curiosity  a  moment  later  he  said:  "It 
seems  most  unsuitable  to  think  that  you  should  ever 
know  sorrow;  but  do  you  expect  your  whole  life  to  move 
quietly  along' — that  is,  just  as  it  does  now?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  answered  hesitatingly, 
"whether  my  life  will  always  be  smooth  or  not,  but  of 
this  I  am  sure,  that  it  was  designed  to  be  so.  I  assure 
you,"  she  added  carelessly,  "I  do  not  intend  to  take  to 
myself  any  trouble  that"^  I  can  avoid,  but,"  she  con- 
tinued, "if.  trouble  ever  does  come,  no  matter  how 
hard  it  is  to  bear,  I  shall  know  that  it  never  came  to 
me  by  any  plan  of  the  God  that  created  me,  but  is 
brought  about  in  some  way  by  human  scheme,  or  igno- 
rance, or  greed." 


168  ^^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

When  the  shadows  had  grown  longer,  Doyt,  return- 
ing to  the  house,  brought  her  hat,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether down  the  shaded  avenue;  there  they  loitered 
along  among  the  trees  that  skirted  the  roadside. 

To  walk  by  her  side  Lowell  felt  was  the  highest 
honor  earth  could  afford  him,  and  when  they  stepped 
briskly  he  noticed^  with  manly  gratification,  tliat  they 
two,  he  and  she,  moved  along  together  with  perfect 
evenness  of  motion. 

Sometimes  as  they  walked,  she  turned  her  head,  and 
at  a  corner,  where  they  stopped  a  moment,  lie  had  the 
sweet  opportunity  of  looking  straight  into  the  fair  face 
again. 

To  his  surprise,  since  his  arrival  at  Oaklawn,  she  had 
never  once  mentioned  George. 

Much  of  the  time  his  mind  had  been  busy  trying 
to  solve  the  problem  of  Avhat  that  strange  omission 
signified.  The  young  man  had  curiosity  on  the  sub- 
ject for  intensely  personal  reasons. 

He  had  feared  that,  owing  to  the  relationship  be- 
tween them,  that  possibly,  from  the  sweet  trustfulness 
of  her  nature,  she  might  confide  to  him  something  con- 
cerning an  understanding  between  herself  and  his  cou- 
sin. Indeed,  several  times,  when  she  had  shyly  hesi- 
tated before  speaking,  he  had  imagined  that  that  was 
the  subject  she  had  in  mind,  and  he  had,  in  a  measure, 
prepared  himself  to  receive  the  information  that  would 
throw  him  back  to  the  prose  of  life  again,  where  he 
would  have  to  live  alone  upon  his  memories. 

AA^andering  on,  they  came  to  the  cottage  where 
Grandma  AA^illiams,  with  a  strong  middle-aged  woman 
for  a  nurse  and  companion,  still  lived. 

-Grandma,  looking  up  from  her  mending,  saw  them 
at  a  little  distance,  and  came  smiling,  out  to  meet 
them.  She  bowed,  and  stood  looking  with  gentle  awe 
upon  the  handsome  stranger,  and  Doyt^s  cheek  flushed 
to  a  brighter  rosiness  as,  presenting  Lowell  to  her,  he 
bowed  and  touched  respectfully  the  thin,  wrinkled 
hand. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  169 

"It  has  been  real  thoughtful  of  ye  to  come,  dears/" 
she  said,  her  withered  face  lit  up  with  gratitude. 
"The  sight  of  a  bonnie  pair  of  youth  like  ye  is  a  favor 
to  my  auid  eyes.  I  should  be  very,  very  pleased  if  ye 
would  stop  awhile.'' 

While  you  might  read  there  a  plaintive  resignation, 
there  was  such  loneliness,  such  pathos  in  the  pale, 
wan  face,  that  Doyt  and  her  companion  followed  the 
tottering  footsteps  up  the  narrow^  walk,  bordered  by 
daisies  and  forget-me-nots,  into  the  plain  little  room. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  and  when  she  had  seen  them 
seated  she  went  to  the  press  at  one  side  and  brought 
out  a  fresh  apron,  and  after  giving  it  a  shake,  she 
fastened  it  about  her  waist,  and  out  of  respect  for  her 
visitors,  before  she  took  her  place  in  her  armchair,  of 
which  her  shrunken  form  filled  only  a  pitiable  fraction, 
she  pushed  back  the  straggling  hairs  under  her  cap 
and  tied  afresh  its  narrow  black  strings. 

"An'  ye  be  the  student  the  doctor  tell't  me  of,'' 
she  asked,  "what  brought  the  leetle  un  fram  oot  the 
waves  of  the  sea?  I  be  glad  to  know  ye;  they  say, 
sure,  that  ye  did  it  week  The  bit  of  the  story  that 
teached  me  the  maist  was  when  ye  walkit  hame  in  yer 
wet  clathes;  after  savin'  anither  life  for  ye  to  be  so 
feckless  wi'  yer  ain!  An'  ye  be  still  leernin?''  she 
asked,  curiously. 

There  was  a  reckless  motion  of  the  wrinkled  hands 
as  with  clear  musical  accent  she  told  them  stories  of 
her  girl  life  among  the  far-a-way  coal  mines;  of  joys 
and  hardships  intermingled,  and  here  and  there,  as 
she  talked,  a  charming  light  came  into  the  sweet  plain 
face,  and  Lowell  seated  at  the  end  of  the  table  inter- 
ested, bent  his  head  and  attentively  listened,  and 
Doyt's  face,  by  turns,  flushed  ynd  grew  serious  in  sym- 
pathy. 

During  their  visit  the  only  time  in  which  she  re- 
ferred in  any  way  to  her  recent  sorrows  was  once  when 
she  said: 


170  A^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"After  ye've  been  sair  trachled  wi'  cares  its  gude  to 
rest." 

When  at  length  Doyt  spoke  of  returning  home,  she 
said:  "Ye're  certainly  nae  gaein'  thout  a  cup  of  same- 
thing  warm."  There  was  a  generous  ardor  in  the  in- 
vitation. 

They  sat  down,  and  while  drinking  tea  together, 
Lowell  told  many  amusing  stories  of  college  life  in  the 
city. 

They  left  the  house,  all  about  them  the  pleasant 
warmth  and  the  spicy  fragrance,  on  the  one  side  of  the 
town  with  its  spires  and  towers  and  the  wide  valley 
hemmed  in  by  the  placid  bay,  and  on  the  other,  the 
vineyards  and  the  orchards,  and  farther  out  the  green 
foothills  and  the  mountains  and  the  varied  hues  of  the 
sunset  sky. 

As  they  went  along  Lowell,  tortured  by  uncertainty 
as  to  the  true  condition  of  affairs,  found  himself  watch- 
ing her  every  motion  and  treasuring  her  every  word  as 
though  it  might  be  the  last  he  should  hear  her  speak. 

They  had  talked  together  with  the  freedom  of 
friends;  slowly,  almost  unconsciously,  all  barriers  be- 
tween them  seemed  to  have  been  removed,  and  the 
afternoon  to  him  had  been  so  quiet,  yet  so  over-brim- 
ming with  hapj)iness,  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  all 
he  could  ever  ask  in  earth  or  Heaven  was  just  that  it 
might  continue  forever.  He  knew  that  this  could  not 
be;  he  knew  that  the  hours  so  thrillingly  happy  would 
soon  be  over;  that  he  must  go  away  out  of  her  life, 
perhaps  out  of  her  thoughts,  back  to  the  college  halls, 
back  to  work  and  study,  back  to  the  old  pain  and  sus- 
pense, and  never  know  whether  she  had  received  him 
in  friendliness  for  his  own  sake  or  simply  out  of  regard 
for  his  rehitionship  to  another. 

He  summoned  his  courage  and  tried  to  fortify  him- 
self for  the  worst. 

Once  as  they  walked  up  the  avenue,  he  stopped  sud- 
denly, for  the  moment  resolved  to  know,  and  there 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  171 

was  something  touching  in  the  tons  of  his  voice  when 
he  spoke  ngain. 

She  turned  toward  him  quickly,  and  when  she  looked 
into  his  troubled  face,  she  said  gently: 

'•What  makes  you  sad?"  and  as  they  went  on  she 
added,  "There  seemed  to  he  sorrow  in  your  voice," 
and  he  answered  her  solicitously:  "Pardon  me,  if  in 
anv  way  I  mar  your  happiness.  I  assure  you  it  was 
far  from  my  intention  to  do  so." 

As  they  neared  the  house  he  said  feelingly:  "I  thank 
you  for  a'^few  hours  of  the  purest  pleasure.  I  have  not 
earned  such  favor." 

In  a  little  time  he  was  gone — he  had  held  her  dim- 
pled hand  a  moment  in  parting,  and  the  happy  after- 
noon was  over. 


H  ^2  ^'"^  ^^^^^  MADE  HER 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Some  months  had  passed  since  the  events  of  the  last 
chapter.  The  valley  lay  in  all  the  glory  of  a  California 
May-time.  The  season  had  come  when  the  doctor  was 
to  take  his  accustomed  outing. 

A  vacatio]!,  to  allow  mind  and  body  to  rest  and  re- 
cuperate, was  a  necessity  to  this  hard-worked  physi- 
cian. His  patients  would  be  benefited — for  he  would 
come  back  to  them  with  reanimated  zeal.  This  sum- 
mer jaunt  would  be  enjoyed  m^ore  than  any  of  its  prede- 
cessors—for his  friends  from  the  East  were  to  accom- 
pany him. 

In  addition  to  his  own  and  brother's  family,  Lowell 
had  been  invited  to  join  them,  and  make  one  of  their 
party.  All  things  had  been  made  ready  and  the  jour- 
ney was  to  begin  on  the  morrow. 

Lowell  came  down  on  the  early  train,  and  the  morn- 
ing was  not  yet  far  advanced  when  the  two  carriages, 
well  loaded,  were  winding  their  way  along  the  hard- 
beaten  track  in  the  direction  of  the  foothills. 

Soon  the  winding  road  began  to  rise  and  to  twist 
about  under  the  shade  of  the  splendid  trees,  at  each 
turn  placing  the  travelers  at  a  higher  altitude.  Pur- 
buing  its  course,  in  some  places,  the  beautiful  smooth 
i!rack  was  chipped  out  of  the  side  of  the  broad  range, 
an.l  parallel  to  it  and  at  its  every  halt  there,  far  below 
them  and  separated  only  by  a  narrow  line  of  foothills, 
in  the  fervid  sunshine,  enfolded  by  the  mountains  and 
like  a  splendid  park  complete  in  its  unveiled  magnifi- 
cence, lay  stretched  the  peaceful  valley.  The  country 
with  its  lavish  riches  of  grass,  land,  and  orchards  and 
vineyards  and  clustering  farmhouses,  and  its  fair  white 
towns,  and  across  its  green  breadth  the  shining  waters 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  173 

of  the  bay,  appeared  in  a  silvery  reach  of  shimmering 
whiteness. 

Here  and  there  close  by  the  roadside  were  beds  of 
verdant  moss  and  gracefully  swaying  fern  leaves,  and 
oaks  strong  and  rugged  and  solemn  of  aspect,  and 
pines  with  their  innumerable  boughs  thrusting  aside 
the  red  branches  of  the  madrones  and  the  laurels.  On 
the  hushed  quiet  of  that  upper  air  fell  the  twittering 
of  ^\T:'ens,  the  soft,  prolonged  warblings  of  the  wild 
r-auaries,  the  liquid  notes  of  the  thrusli,  the  rippling 
melody  of  the  crimson-headed  linnets,  and  the  plaintive 
chanting  of  quails,  while  the  west  wind  was  softly  mov- 
ing the  highest  branches  and  bringing  in  over  their 
slow  waving  tops,  flimsy  cloud  driftings  of  sea  vapor. 

Through  evergreen  mazes,  the  air  bracing  and  tonic, 
they  gradually  scaled  again  the  mountain-side,  climb- 
ing by  zigzags  and  by  continued  strain  of  muscle  reach- 
ing higher  elevations,  only  to  find  another  ascent  more 
formidably  frowning  ahead. 

Early  in  the  day  they  noticed  that  "Eags'^  by  sensible 
precaution  made  fewer  excursions  into  the  brush  than 
on  the  occasion  of  his  former  experience  in  mountain 
climbing,  and  kept  closely  to  the  beaten  road,  making 
sedulous  endeavor  to  hoard  his  strength. 

Once  on  the  way  upward  and  just  at  the  verge  of  a 
bold  promontory  they  met  another  equipage  occupied 
by  some  lover  of  nature,  student,  or  professor  from 
the  University  below,  and  while  the  wheels  of  one  of 
the  passing  carriages  grated  against  the  ancient  ma- 
sonry on  one  side  of  the  roadbed,  a  few  inches  of  space 
only  remained  between  those  of  the  outer  vehicle  and 
the  evergreen  depths  below. 

Once  again,  too,  before  they  reach  the  summit,  there 
is  n  rift  in  the  tree  branches  and  in  the  white  sunlight 
the  lovely  valley  again  appears,  this  time  dimmer  and 
less  plainly  defined,  like  a  picture  in  the  far  depths. 

Climbing  leisurely  the  quiet  path,  before  the  noon- 
time, they  reached  the  barren  space  which  crowned  the 
summit  of  the  mountain,  and  having  moved  down  the 


174  -^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

sloping  trail  to  where  a  spring,  beautiful  and  clear, 
came  gurgling  out  of  the  hillside  they  stopped  for 
luncheon. 

The  air  being  cooler  on  the  ocean  side  of  the  range, 
the  spot  they  had  chosen  was  a  wide,  grassy  space  al- 
most clear  of  shade. 

All  felt  a  sharp  contrast  between  this  and  the  me- 
chanical regularity  of  the  days  at  home,  and,  filled 
with  fresh,  healthful,  normal  impulses  each  seemed  to 
find  perfect  satisfaction  in  the  delicious  warmth  and 
freedom  of  the  day  and  to  be  keenly  conscious  that 
it  was  to  be  fraught  with  pleasure  that  would  linger 
long  in  the  memory. 

The  doctor,  enraptured  always  with  nature,  and  tak- 
ing note  of  its  every  charm,  once,  out  of  the  fullness 
of  his  heart,  said: 

"One  has  to  get  away  from  the  ordinary  routine  to 
realize  that  he  lives."  He  continued  with  an  air  of 
serene  contentment:  "A  day  like  this,  now,  makes  a 
mark  in  a  man's  lifetime,  and  is  worth  a  hundred  of 
the  ordinary  days  that  go  to  make  up  existence.  It 
is  this  kind  of  an  experience  that  gives  the  soul  a 
chance  to  grow." 

Lowell  felt  ardently  the  irresistible  allurements  of 
the  occasion,  but  appreciative  as  he  was  of  the  natural 
surroundings,  his  sense  of  happiness  seemed  to  come 
from  the  blending  of  Doyt's  blitheness  and  sunniness 
with  every  feature  of  the  landscape. 

After  the  fagged  horses  had  been  unhitched  from 
the  carriages,  Lowell  had  been  out  with  Boyt  a  little 
ways  from  the  camp  gathering  sticks  for  a  fire,  and  as 
they  came  bringing  them  in,  a  young  girl  voice  caroled 
a  low  melody  in  a  tone  so  i3ure  and  clear  that  that  it 
harmonized  with  and  became  a  part  of  the  native  wood- 
music. 

Each  object  about  him  seemed  to  acquire  a  sort  of 
magnetic  allurement  from  her  presence;  the  charming 
serenity  of  the  morning  seemed  to  be  due  to  content 
in  her  sweet  face ;  the  grass  was  fresher  because  her  feet 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  I75 

had  touched  it;  the  sunshine  was  most  brilliant  when 
it  lingered  among  the  meshes  of  her  hair;  an  evergreen 
tree  held  its  claim  to  the  highest  measure  of  comeli- 
ness when  its  green  mass  served  as  a  background  for 
her  rounded  form. 

Dorcas  and  Rhoda  had  unloaded  the  baskets  and 
spread  the  cloth,  and  when  the  coifee  was  boiled,  Tim 
v/as  called  from  where  he  stood  dabbling  in  the  run- 
ning water:  the  cushions  were  brought  and  soon  there 
was  a  gratified  look  on  Dorcas'  face  to  see  them  all 
seated  at  the  mountain  banquet. 

Ehoda  complaining  that  she  had  ''got  kind  of  tottery 
like"  over  the  long  ride,  Lowell  chivalrously  assisted 
her  to  a  seat  and  took  the  one  by  her  side.  Doyt  and 
her  father  sat  opposite;  John  and  Tim  at  one  side  and 
Dorcas  by  herself  at  the  other. 

"I  am  glad,  Dorcas/^  the  doctor  said  facetiously, 
"that  it  occurred  to  you  that  some  of  us  miglnt  be 
hungry/'  and  as  he  spoke  the  breeze  gently  and  lov- 
ingly lifted  his  heavy  locks  and  fanned  his  broad  brow 
with  gracious  softness,  and  the  sunshine,  tender  and 
warm,  lit  up  the  features  of  his  classic  face. 

"It  is  well  you  have  brought  a  bountiful  supply,'' 
he  continued,  looking  over  the  well-spread  table,  "for 
there's  not  an  invalid  among  us,  and  there  is  something 
stimulating  to  the  appetite  in  such  a  dining-room  as 
this." 

It  was  only  a  moment  later  that  he  said  again  in  a 
reminiscent  way:  "I  don't  know  whether  you  have 
noticed  it  or  not,  John,  but  Dorcas  is  addicted  to  doing 
these";  he  hesitated  a  moment  as  if  to  find  the  suit- 
able expression  for  his  thought,  and  then  added,  "these 
pleasantly  surprising  things." 

In  Dorcas'  face  there  was  an  expression  of  gratifi- 
cation mixed  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment. 

It  was  a  little  thing  that  her  brother  had  said,  yet 
even  in  this  Christian  land  a  most  unusual  thing.  In 
every  household  there  is  of  necessity  one  immolated 
victim,  and  even  among  kind-hearted  people  there  is 


176  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

such  .lack  of  appreciation  for  the  sacrifice.  "Women 
cheerfidW  make  themselves  martyrs,  but  ihey  are  per- 
mitted to  go  so  often  hungry  for  honest  recognition  of 
the  sacrifice. 

If  only  each  woman  who  slaves  and  worries  over  the 
kitchen  fire  to  provide  food  for  the  tahle  after  the 
mo(K^rn  elaborate  method,  could  receive  one  word  of 
commendation  for  each  hundred  meals  even,  that  she 
serves,  T  have  an  idea  that  the  expense  to  the  state  for 
the  support  of  female  insane  aslyums  would  be  largely 
reduced. 

Dr.  Harding  was  a  man  who  was  accustomed  to  mak- 
ing just  such  little  speeches  as  this  last,  and  after  he 
had  passed  the  chicken  around  he  declared  magnani- 
mously: 

"If  others  had  had  the  opportunity  of  forming  any 
proper  conception  of  Dorcas  and  of  what  she  is 
capable,  my  little  daughter  and  I,  no  matter  how  much 
we  need  her,  would  never  have  been  able  to  keep  her. 
The  full  understanding  of  Dorcas'  worth,  you  know, 
would  inspire  a  man  to  such  eloquence  as  would  over- 
come even  her  loyalty  to  us." 

Dorcas  said  something  about  her  two  brothers  hav- 
ing so  monopolized  her  affections  that  she  never  cared 
for  any  other  alliance,  and  had  given  very  little  atten- 
tion to  what  they  thought  of  her. 

Presently  John,  setting  down  his  coffee  cup,  averred: 
"It  is  generally  understood  in  our  country  that  there 
is  at  least  one  man  who  has  always  held  full  apprecia- 
tion for  Dorcas.  I  suppose  you  know  that  Enoch  lives 
alone  there  3^et  on  his  farm;  that  he  lays  up  money 
every  year  and  that  he  carries  a  big  insurance  on  his 
life.  It  has  been  talked  about  pretty  freely  over  our 
way,  that  that,  with  his  other  accumulations,  is  in- 
tended for  our  Dorcas  some  day." 

"Don't  depend  upon  any  such  delusion,  John,"  his 
sister  answered,  as  she  poured  him  a  second  cup  of 
coffee.  "If  Enoch  is  really  making  a  sacrifice  of  his 
youth  and  middle  age  to  store  up  money  for  anybody's 


A    I^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  177 

benefit,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  place  proper  estimate  on 
the  immolation,  but  you  are  altogether  mistaken  about 
his  designing  any  part  of  it  for  me." 

"Why,  Aunt  Dorcas,"  her  niece  protested  with  true 
allegiance  "I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  make  you  his 
heiress.  I  am  sure  in  the  whole  world  there  is  no  one 
to  whom  it  would  do  him  more  credit  to  leave  his 
money." 

And  Dorcas  still  attending  to  the  wants  of  those 
about  the  table  and  inwardly  conscious  of  their  kind- 
ness, responded  feelingly: 

''1  am  rich  enough  as  I  am.  I  do  not  know  what  I 
should  want  with  money." 

The  look  on  Rhoda's  face  was  entirely  out  of  keeping 
with  every  earthly  thing  about  her,  and  as  she  began 
upon  the  dessert:  "What  does  all  that  matter,  I'd  like 
to  know,"  she  urged  perversely.  "How  you  all  do  spoil 
Dorcas!" 

"Eags,"  who  with  canine  good  manners,  had  always 
held  himself  aloof  from  the  house  even  at  home,  had 
on  this  occasion  drawn  very  near  to  the  festal  board. 
Unrebuked,  he  had  occupied  a  prominent  position  at 
the  corner,  Just  between  Lowell  and  Tim,  and  during 
the  meal,  bone  after  bone  had  been  passed  in  his  di- 
rection. During  the  whole  time  his  shaggy  tail  had 
never  once  given  over  wagging;  his  joy  at  being  re- 
ceived on  equal  terms  with  the  family  seeming  to  oc- 
cupy him  to  the  exclusion  of  even  the  feeling  of  hun- 
ger. 

12 


178  ^^  (^^^D  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  as  they  drove  along  among 
the  monntain  ranges,  here  and  there  they  passed  a 
great,  dignitied  sequoia  that  had  escaped  man's  sacri- 
ligions  hand,  and  whose  immensity  called  forth  ex- 
pressions of  amazement  from  John,  but  it  was  not  until 
evening  was  falling  that  fording  a  beautiful,  clear 
running  stream  they  passed  around  a  sharp  curve,  and 
was  at  last  in  the  midst  of  the  impressive  grandeur  of 
the  redwood  forest. 

The  full  moon  had  climbed  high  above  the  horizon, 
sending  through  every  opening  broad  beams  of  tran- 
quil light,  and  just  before  they  entered  the  wood,  in 
the  balmy  stillness  several  great  white  owls  appeared, 
and  with  silvery  widespread  wings  floated  dreamily 
and  noiselessly  about,  lighting  now  and  then  on  some 
low  branch  near  by. 

Before  and  around  them  there  was  an  undulating 
extent  of  verdure,  for  the  young  trees  which  had 
sprung  up  at  the  base  of  the  kingly  specimens  were  of 
shimmering  greenness  and  the  air  was  redolent  with 
their  gummy  fragrance,  while  column  upon  column 
and  cluster  upon  cluster  of  the  larger  coniferae,  known 
as  sequoia  gigantea,  taking  solid  hold  on  Mother  Earth 
had  towered  in  their  upright  splendid  symmetry  until 
their  faraway  indistinct  tops  seemed  to  become  a  part 
of  the  perfect  blue. 

The  very  grandeur  to  eyes  unfamiliar  made  the  place 
seem  holy.  It  was  a  piece  of  earth  of  which  God 
seemed  still  to  hold  absolute  possession,  for  save  the 
narrow  road  curving  around  the  hillside  nature  had 
been  left,  since  the  dawn,   uninterrupted. 

All  about  them  there  was  such  calm  and  peace  that 
the  men  took  off  their  hats  and  stood  in  pensive  quiet 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  I79 

with  faces  lifted  upwards.  Here  and  there  shafts  of 
sunlight  from  the  fast  disappearing  sun  came  through 
into  the  beautiful  world  about  them,  and  touched  it  up 
to  bright  color. 

As  they  drove  along  the  road  the  stream  left  its  level 
and  sank  into  the  gorge  far  below  while  its  soft 
gurgle,  and  the  plaintive  note  of  the  quail  calling  to 
its  young  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  sacred 
stillness. 

The  darkness  had  come  on,  and  just  as  they  entered 
the  balmy  stillness  of  the  deep  wood,  the  full  moon, 
now  high  above  the  horizon,  sent  through  every  open- 
ing broad  beams  of  tranquil  light.  The  bright  orb 
was  just  coming  out  into  clear  view  among  the  tops 
of  the  trees,  when  they  drove  up  to  the  mountain 
house,  where  they  were  to  sleep  for  the  night. 

The  wind  that  blew  in  from  the  sea  grew  sharply 
colder,  and,  after  supper,  as  an  expression  of  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  house,  a  great  fire  was  built  upon  the 
wide  hearth  and  the  party,  chilled  and  wearied, 
gathered  in  its  brilliant  irradiation,  while  in  congruity 
with  the  wholesome  comfort  of  the  broad  room  from 
an  obscure  corner  came  the  soothing  music  of  stringed 
instruments. 

Oh,  the  sweet  deliciousness  of  that  night,  with  its 
cheer  and  rest  and  sweet  congenial  companionship,  the 
lavish  richness  of  the  mountain  air,  and  the  owning 
of  quiet  minds,  and  the  possession  of  sturdy  health  to 
enjoy  it  all! 

A  contented  party,  late  in  the  evening  they  sought 
their  pillow,  Lowell  reveling  in  the  luxury  of  the  pros- 
pect of  a  succession  of  these  happy,  perfect  days  in 
Doyt's  presence,  and  in  a  condition  of  passive  gratitude 
to  the  kindness  of  fate. 

Within  the  mountain  house  there  was  solace  and 
silence  and  peace,  and  outside  the  murmurng  stream 
and  the  moonlight  and  the  massive  trees,  in  their 
square-cut  strength,  huddled  together  like  stalwart 
brothers,  holding  interminable  guard. 


180  ^S  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII. 

The  next  day  our  party  enjoyed  many  novel  ex- 
periences. 

In  the  early  morning  they  had  been  awakened  by 
a  grand^  stirring  chorns  of  native  musicians,  a  lark 
and  thrush  in  the  lead. 

After  breakfast,  dressed  for  climbing,  they  explored 
mountain  trails,  pushed  their  way  through  thickets 
of  laurel  and  blossoming  lilacs,  under  mammoth  ferns, 
down  into  gulches,  and,  forcing  their  way  through  the 
driftwood,  they  explored  rock  chasms,  and  waded  the 
pebbly  streams.  The  longer  they  remained  com- 
panions of  the  redwoods,  the  more  regardful  they  be- 
came of  their  exalted  grandeur. 

While  their  green  tops  pierced  the  upper  world  of 
clouds,  they  appeared  to  hold  their  position  with  such 
unassuming  dignity.  They  were  so  enduringly  estab- 
lished, and,  as  our  people  studied  them,  heedful  of 
their  worth,  they  seemed  so  consciously  noble.  They 
htid  passed  their  youth  by  thousands  of  years.  The 
soft  breezes  from  the  Pacific  gently  moved  their  supple 
b.ranches  and  awakened  among  them  a  gentle  rustling. 
Perhaps  their  evergreen  foliage  had  been  in  the  same 
way  stirred  to  motion  when  Egyptian  sculptors  were 
chiseling  out  the  mystic  sphinx,  when  the  tongue  of 
Demosthenes  was  being  sternly  trained  to  its  masterful 
oratory,  yet  they  had  such  spirit  and  vigor,  were  so 
erect,  had  shafts  so  evenly  and  gracefully  tapered,  were 
so  hardy  and  vigorous,  that  they  still  seemed  joyously, 
refreshingly  young. 

One  afternoon,  two  or  three  days  after  their  arrival, 
Doyt  and  Lowell  were  alone.  From  the  house  they 
had  wandered  down  the  path  toward  the  stream,  and 
stood  together  half  way  down  the  gulch. 

From  where  they  halted  they  could  see  the  trees  on 


A   8T0RT  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  181 

on  the  other  side  rising  tier  on  tier,  in  their  reserved, 
mysterious  stateliness. 

As  they  looked  upward  along  the  further  bank 
through  an  opening  between  the  huge  clumps  of  trees, 
there  came  into  view  a  great  cloud  composed  roll  on 
roll  of  glistening  whiteness.  As  they  watched  it,  the 
glory  of  it  grew.  It  moved  tumultuously,  spread, 
rolled  outward,  and,  dazzlingly  radiant,  loomed  higher 
in  its  fluffy  dowmdness;  brilliant,  crystalline,  luminous 
in  its  strange  unfolded  incongruity. 

The  whole  attention  of  each  was  directed  toward  the 
cloud,  now  assuming  shape,  and  of  unu'sual  beauty,  till 
it  broke  up  into  a  soft  mist  and  floated  away.  To  get 
a  better  view  of  it,  as  it  was  elusively  disappearing, 
they  had  climbed  upon  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  fallen 
trees. 

Outside  of  Lowell's  thought  of  Doyt,  his  work  at 
college  had  monopolized  his  mind.  While  together 
they  had  had  more  than  one  discussion  on  scientific 
points.  He  knew  that  she  was  in  sympathy  with  what 
he  was  learning.  He  did  not  flatter  himself  that  this 
was  because  he  had  been  giving  his  time  to  the  study 
of  medical  lore.  If  any  such  idea  had  come  to  him, 
in  bare  abnegation,  he  had  dismissed  the  happy  fancy. 

Through  her  supreme  interest  in  her  father,  and  the 
broad  idea  that  he  promulgated,  he  was  aware  that 
long  before  he  knew  her,  her  mind  had  had  a  bent  in 
the  same  direction  that  he  was  following,  and  he  was 
glad  that  it  was  so.  It  made  it  easy  for  them  to  talk 
together;  it  made  her  ready  of  comprehension,  and  not 
only  a  captivating  talker,  but  a  ready  listener. 

Still,  he  realized  with  inward  bitterness  only  that  it 
gave  her  distinction  and  set  her  apart  from  him,  while 
every  bright  word  she  uttered,  every  new  thought  she 
advanced,  every  moment  he  spent  in  her  charming 
presence,  only  made  him  the  more  helplessly  and  hope- 
lessly in  love  with  her. 

Though  he  was  bending  every  nerve  to  make  the 
most  of  the  moments  spent  with  her,  in  spite  of  the 


182  '^^  OOD  MADE  HER. 

perfect  felicity  of  the  present  surroundingSj  the  dark 
side  of  the  picture  persisted  in  coming  uppermost. 

He  knew  that  no  matter  how  blissfully  sweet  were 
the  present  days^  they  must  soon  be  over.  He  realized 
almost  gloomily  that  his  college  days  were  almost  past, 
and  was  surprised  that  now  he  found  himself  almost 
at  the  starting  point  of  life,  when  he  must  measure  his 
strength  and  training  with  that  of  other  men,  that  he 
felt  so  little  inclined  to  do  so.  It  came  to  him  with 
a  cruel  thrill  that  no  matter  what  exertion  of  strength 
he  might  make,  it  would  be  a  long  time,  even  though 
no  other  had  any  claim  on  her,  before  he  should  have 
won  the  position  which  would  justiiy  him  in  the  hope 
ever  of  winning  her. 

The  matter  of  poignant  interest  to  him  now  was 
that  he  must  soon  drop  out  of  her  life,  and  he  thought 
with  throbbing  heart,  how  she  would  never  realize 
what,  through  all  the  time  that  he  had  known  her, 
she  had  been  to  him;  how  every  college  examination 
he  had  plodded  through  he  had  'regarded  as  something 
that  placed  him  in  some  way  nearer  to  her.  He 
thought  pathetically  how  she  would  never  appreciate 
how,  though  they  were  soon,  perchance,  to  separate 
forever,  the  effect  his  year's  acquaintance  with  her 
would  have  on  his  whole  life.  To  go  out  and  away 
from  her  for  all  time- — she  could  never  know  what  that 
meant  to  him. 

As  he  deliberately  dwelt  upon  it  and  the  bitterness 
of  it,  his  pain  grew  till  he  wondered,  knowing  all  that 
stood  in  the  way  of  ever  winning  her,  he  had  had  such 
splendid  disregard  for  his  own  agony  as  having  met 
her  once  and  being  conscious  of  how  he  was  aifected 
by  her  personality,  he  had  ever  again  sought  her  pres- 
ence. 

The  great  tree  on  w4iich  they  had  been  standing 
had  fallen  athwart  the  stream,  and  on  its  broad  sur- 
face they  crossed,  and,  making  their  way  through  the 
fragrant  branches  of  the  bay  trees,  they  sat  down  on 
its  huge  trunk  close  by  where  the  crystal,  pure  water 
went  tumbling  and  foaming  over  the  broad  rocks. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  ^gS 


OHAPTEK  XXXVIII. 

It  was  one  of  California's  dreamiest  days.  Mingled 
with  the  grand  sublimity  of  the  forest  surroundings 
there  was  warmth  and  comfort  and  a  sense  of  sweet, 
delicious  peace. 

The  open  space  about  them  was  encircled  by  tama- 
racks and  pines,  and  by  fresh,  young  sequoias,  whose 
first  branches,  spreading  out  from  their  very  roots, 
formed  cones  of  shimmering  greenness.  She  had 
taken  a  seat  a  little  distance  from  Lowell,  and  facing 
him,  her  hat  lying  at  her  side. 

Ripples  of  sunshine  played  all  about  her  and  lighted 
up  her  soft  hair  to  glintings  of  gold.  As  they  talked, 
he  watched  the  motions  of  her  supple  hands;  as  an 
artist  might,  he  studied  the  feminine  grace  of  her 
posture;  the  smiles  that  curved  the  rosy  lips;  the 
symmetry  of  her  pliant  figure;  the  changing  expression 
of  her  winsome  face;  the  sweet  childishness  of  her 
manner.  She  was  a  brilliant  and  fascinating  conver- 
sationalist, and  the  ripple  of  her  laughter  was  the 
most  enchanting  of  music. 

Once  while  her  companion  sat  silent,  the  young  girl 
philosophized.  Leaning  her  elbow  on  the  tree  trunk, 
she  placed  her  dimpled  cheek  in  her  half  closed  hand, 
and  said: 

"Strange,  isn't  it,  that  people  give  up  this  beautiful 
place  just  to  the  birds  and  the  squirrels?  See  that 
cute  bunch  of  vitality  now!"  she  called,  as  a  gray  squir- 
rel, as  though  pressed  for  time,  went  trailing  his  tail 
along  the  farther  portion  of  the  same  tree  on  which 
they  were  sitting.  "There's  not  one  of  the  little 
scamperers  but  what  is  sound  and  strong.  I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  a  doctor  squirrel  among  them,  Lowell," 
she  added  with  mock  seriousness. 


1 84  ^^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

Lowell  had  been  engaged  in  throwing  pebbles  into 
the  stream,  bnt  he  looked  up  and  responded  with  a 
langh:  "That  fellow,  surely,  doesnH  look  as  though 
he  needed  any  care,  either  medical  or  surgical.  All 
straining  after  medical  lore  would  be  wasted  effort  if 
everybody  breathed  such  air  as  the  squirrels  breathe. 
You're  right,  no  doctor,  biped  or  quadruped,  could  get 
a  living  here." 

She  continued  her  subject  without  taking  special 
notice  of  his  manner:  "I  cannot  understand  why 
human  beings  do  not  avail  themselves  of  the  resources 
of  the  earth.  You'd  think  now  that  everybody  would 
be  leaving  their  work  and  coming  down  here  to  get 
some  of  this  strong,  sweet  air.  But  they  don't,''  she 
averred.  "There  is  precious  few  of  all  the  people  in 
the  world  who  ever  get  a  sniff  of  it,  even.  I  could  not 
live  that  way,  but  then  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have 
always  breathed  the  fragrance  of  trees."  - 

Lowell  did  not  answer.  He  was  in  too  serious  a 
mood.  His  mind  was  too  absorbed  for  him  to  find- 
words  readily,  but,  as  he  looked  into  her  sweet,  sunny, 
rounded  face,  he  thought:  "How  plainly  you  show  it!" 
and  perhaps,  too,  he  thought:  "How  like  these  happy 
wood  creatures  she  was  in  her  serene  immunity  from . 
disease,  in  her  captivating  grace  and  daintiness,  in  her 
fresh,  glad  strength  of  constitution,  in  her  innocent 
enthusiasm  with  life!" 

Glancing  upward  once,  Doyt  found  a  look  on  her 
companion's  face  that  was  new  to  her,  and  when  he 
spoke,  she  noticed  that  he  seemed  to  be  moved  by  some 
strange  emotion. 

"Doyt,"  he  said,  "I  shall  soon  be  through  with 
school,  now." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"That  means  a  great  change  in  the  life  of  a  young 
man." 

"Yes." 

"It  means  that  he  who  has  always  depended  on  the 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.         '         185 

support  and  on  the  advice  of  others  has  got  to  take 
hold  for  himself/^ 

"Yes/'  she  replied,  with  a  show  of  sympathy,  ''I 
suppose  that  is  a  hard  thing  to  do/' 

"No,  Doyt,  no,"  he  returned;  with  great  earnestness; 
"I  don't  think  that  of  itself  would  be  difficult.  To 
grapple  with  the  woTld  and  strive  to  gain  a  foothold 
among  men,  that  is  easy";  he  continued,  speaking  very 
slowly,  "so  one  has  an  impulse  behind  it." 

Since  his  first  acquaintance,  though  the  young  man 
had  always  been  received  by  the  family  on  terms  of 
pleasant  companionableness,  he  still  felt  bewildered  as 
to  the  position  he  held  among  them. 

In  w^eighing  the  matter,  it  seemed  to  him  that  to 
know  the  truth  of  the  situation,  no.  matter  how  hard, 
would  be  better  than  the  suspense. 

His  pity  for  himself,  and  the  dark  uncertainty  of  the 
future  grew  till,  suddenly  moved,  it  seemed  by  an 
irresistible  impulse,  he  turned  facing  her  and  said: 

"The  world  that  we  have  been  talking  of,  Doyt,  has 
changed  to  me  since  I  saw  you.  That's  where  the  dif- 
ficulty lies.  No  matter  how  much  I  strive,  how  much 
I  smother  my  longings,  how  much  I  crush  down  my 
feelings,  I  can  never  go  back  to  my  old  position  in  it." 

She  assumed  an  attitude  of  respectful  attention,  and 
in  a  troubled  way  gazed  into  his  face,  disturbed  more, 
perhaps,  on  account  of  the  change  in  his  voice  than 
by  what  he  said.     For  a  little  time  neither  spoke. 

Lowell  looked  around  him,  up  among  the  giant  trees, 
at  the  green  clumps  of  ferns,  down  at  the  clear,  rushing 
water.  He  listened  to  the  woodland  music,  and  then 
he  said: 

"I  perhaps  do  wrong  to  speak  of  it  here;  this  place 
should  be  all  peace  and  love;  there  should  be  no  dis- 
quiet, no  discontent  amid  such  surroundings.  Your 
life,  too,  so  sweet  and  serene,  I  do  wrong,  I  know,  to 
in  any  way  disturb  its  pleasant  peace;  besides,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  faltered  a  little;  "the  fear  all  the  time 


186  '  ^^*S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 

haunts  me  that  you  may  be  so  pledged  that  you  will 
feel  that  it  is  not  proj^er  for  you  to  listen  to  me,  yet," 
rising,  he  continued  impulsively,  "no  matter  how  indis- 
creet it  may  be  on  my  part,  how  ill-timed,  I  must  tell 
you  Doyt,  how  much  you  are  to  me,  and  to  beg  of  you,'^ 
he  continued  in  a  tone  of  humble  devotion,  "that  if  the 
time  ever  comes  when  you  need  a  protector"  (he  was 
just  on  the  point  of  saying  an  avenger),  "you  will  give 
me  the  honor  of  serving  you. 

Her  penetration,  her  lucid  intelligence,  had  enabled 
her  to  understand  him;  at  the, same  time  much  that 
had  seemed  strange  in  Lowell's  manner  was  now  ex- 
plained. She  was  occupied  in  pulling  bits  of  bark  from 
the  log  on  which  she  was  sitting;  there  was  a  careless- 
ness in  her  manner  that  was  in  direct  contrast  to  the 
pathetic  earnestness  in  his.  After  musing  some  little 
time  she  lifted  her  liquid  eyes  and  looking  into  the 
face  opposite,  she  began: 

"Lowell!" 

"Yes,"'  he  answered. 

There  was  a  roguish  tAvinkling  in  the  eyes  that  were 
hxed  on  his  as  she  proceeded  in  a  low  tone:  "I  want  to 
tell  you  that  your  present  companion  has  so  far  es- 
caped that  dreadful  calamity  you  mention;  that  just 
as  she  always  has,  she  still  lays  claim  to  perfect  liberty 
of  thought  and  action." 

A  changed  expression  came  into  the  eyes  that  were 
searching  hers,  and  she  continued  regardfully:  "She 
thanks  you  for  your  solicitude  in  her  regard  and  is 
ready  to  stipulate  that  when  she  needs  any  protection 
that  you  will  be  the  one  on  whom  she  will  depend." 

The  young  man  stood  motionless.  What  he  had 
deemed  an  unconquerable  difficulty  had  been  moved 
so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly,  that  he  gazed  stunned 
upon  the  unobstructed  path. 

She  had  so  long  been  to  him  a  star,  an  ideal,  a  dream, 
a  poem  distant  from  him,  but  dear  as  life.  Now  he  be- 
gan to  comprehend  that  far  away  as  she  was  there  was 
no  obstacle  between;  that  the  clear  light  from  his  star 


.4.   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  187 

shone  down  upon  him,  and  to  feel  that  there  was  a 
power  in  love  that  possibly  might  cross  the  space. 

As  she  watched  his  face  she  saw  the  anxious  thought 
die  out  of  it;  she  saw  it  kindle  then  and  soften  into 
tenderness. 

A  gentle  breeze  coming  down  between  the  hills  and 
into  their  green  Eden  whispered  mysteriously  and 
moved  the  low  boughs  of  the  trees  causing  them  to 
yield  up  fresh  incense.  A  bird  passed  by  them  with 
soft  flight.  The  brook's  rush  and  ripple  was  the  only 
sound  beside. 

Lowell  had  not  anticipated  such  a  reply;  he  had  not 
prepared  himself  for  it.  He  had  fortified  himself  only 
for  renunciation  and  when  he  spoke,  standing  there 
before  her  in  trepidation,  yet  with  reverent  manner, 
there  was  no  conventional  arrangement  of  the  words 
that  fell  from  his  ]ips.  From  his  strong  soul  they 
came  in  full  sincerity. 

Taking  a  step  forward,  "Doyt,"  he  affirmed,  "I  want 
to  give  you  something;  that  is,"  he  continued,  "I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  share  something  with  me." 

Taking  note  of  the  deeply  serious  look  that  had  come 
over  the  sweet  face,  with  an  effort  at  carelessness,  he 
added: 

''0,  it's  something  that  doesn't  amount  to  much, 
Doyt";  then  his  voice  fell  to  the  deepest  earnestness 
agam  as  he  proceeded;  ''The  fact  is,  it  doesn't  amount 
to  anything  to  me  any  more  unless  you  share  it  with 
me." 

A  bird  singing  on  the  branch  of  a  tree  near  by  poured 
out  a  flood  of  melody. 

Lowell  waited  respectfully  until  he  knew  by  the 
cadence  that  it  had  finished  its  stanza,  then  he  went 
on  enunciating  the  words  slowly:  "I  had  not  intended 
speaking  of  this,  Doyt;  that  is,  even  though  I  had 
known  that  you  were  free,  I  should  not  have  spoken 
of  it  for  a  long  time  at  least,  but  I)oyt,"  and  he  went 
a  step  nearer,  "do  you  know  that  in  spite  of  the  dis- 
tance and  the  hindrances  that  yet  lie  between  myself 


Ig^  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

and  even  the  hope  of  winning  you,  that  it  seems  such 
a  perfectly  natural  and  unavoidable  thing  for  me  to 
love  you/'  the  very  tone  of  his  voice  absolved  him  from 
all  intention  in  the  matter,  "and  to  be  happy  when  I 
am  near  you  that  I  seemed  forced  to  tell  you  of  it?'"' 

The  senteiice  that  followed  came  impulsively:  "That 
which  I  want  you  to  share  with  me,  I)oyt,  is  my  life. 
Worthless  as  1  have  acknowledged  it  to  be,"  he  con- 
tinued humbly,  "I  don't  know  how  I  can  expect  you  to 
value  the  gift." 

The  girl  sat  with  her  eyes  downcast,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap.  She  did  not  answer  at  once  and  the  sing- 
ing bird  went  over  its  murmuring  notes  again  as  in 
echo,  softly,  exquisitely,  accurately  to  the  very  last. 
She  listened  till  the  song  ended  and  died  away  in  the 
wood  silence,  then,  still  seated,  she  looked  up  into  his 
face  smilingly,  and  replied: 

"You  ask  me,  Lowell,  to  share  your  life?''  and  as 
she  spoke  the  soft,  silvan  melody  seemed  to  thrill 
through  the  tones  of  her  own  voice.  "If  I  were  to 
be  candidly  truthful,  Lowell,  I  think  I  should  say  that 
is  just  what  I  have  already  been  engaged  in  doing  for 
some  time." 

As  she  spoke  he  scarcely  breathed.  Every  filler  of 
his  being  seemed  strained  to  listen. 

"0,  Boyt,  do  you  mean  it?"  and  his  brown  eyes  w^ere 
beaming  as  he  took  a  step  nearer.  She  raised  her  hand 
and  turned  toward  him  its  pink  palm. 

"Wait,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean,"  she  said  calmly. 
"Its  this  way,  Lowell,"  she  declared,  thinking  steadily: 
"When  I  get  up  in  the  morning  I  wonder  if  you  are 
already  up  and  what  you  are  doing.  I  wonder  many 
times  a  day  if  you  are  studying  and  whether  your 
studies  are  hard  or  if  they  are  interesting  to  you." 
With  the  toe  of  her  shoe  she  was  pushing  aside  the  lush 
grass.  "Many  other  times  too,  I  think  about  you," 
and  without  his  urging  it  she  continued  her  sweet  con- 
fession. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFOR^UA   TAFE.  189 

"And,  Lowell/'  with  a  change  of  tone,  she  added, 
"ever  since  that  night  3^011  and  George  spent  the  even- 
ing at  home  there  with  iis,  and  you  remember  you  and 
1  walked  down  the  path  among  the  trees  together  in 
the  moonlight,  and  father  and  George  behind  us,  you 
know,"  she  explained,  "well,  Lowell,  ever  since  that 
night  whenever  I  have  looked  up  at  the  moon  shining 
there  so  calmly  in  the  night  sky,  I  have  wondered  if 
you  were  looking  at  it  too.  All  this  time  through  all 
the  moons  that  have  come,  Lowell,  I  have  been  doing 
this  and  you  know,''  she  added,  looking  truthfully  up, 
''nntil  we  came  down  here  you  and  I  have  never  looked 
at  the  moon  together  since  that  night." 

As  Lowell  gazed  dowm  into  the  lovely,  pure  face  up- 
turned to  his  what  he  asked  himself  was:  "Was  ever 
lover  so  blest?  And  whenever  did  woman  so  sweetly 
tell  her  love?" 

"Say  it,  Doyt,  dear,"  the  handsome  fellow  urged 
touchingly  "say  that  you  love  me." 

The  clear  mountain  air  seemed  to  have  deepened  the 
color  of  her  eyes  and  touched  the  sweet  serious  face 
to  an  almost  unearthly  beauty. 

"Yes,  Lowell,"  she  said  very  earnestly,  slightly 
bending  her  head  again,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you;  I  do 
love  you." 

He  stood  there  before  her  a  moment  in  respectful 
silence.     Then  with  intensity  of  feeling  he  responded: 

"Through  long  months  of  study,  Doyt,  I  have  looked 
forward  to  this  trip  with  you;  when  we  should  spend 
the  time  without  a  thought  of  work  or  a  shadow  of 
duty.  I  looked  for  this  to  be  a  happy  week,  but  I 
never  expected  such  joy  as  this.  When  we  came  down 
here  I  said  to  myself,  as  we  rode  along  together,  you 
sitting  where  I  could  turn  and  see  you:  There  is  this 
happy  day  and  then  there  are  six  more  happy  days  to 
follow  and  they  will  all  be  like  this  for  I  shall  be  near 
her.  But  now  just  to  think  of  it,"  he  added,  with  ex- 
ultation, "all  my  life  is  to  be  made  up  of  happy  days! 
Just  to  think,  I)oyt,  I  may  go  about  thinking,  every- 


190  -"^^  ^^^D  MADE  HER. 

thing  I  do^  every  step  I  take^  whether  you  are  with 
ine  or  not,  that  you  love  me  and  that  you  are  mine." 

"Yes,  Lowell/"'  she  responded,  and  the  words  fell 
from  her  ripe  lips  measuredly,  "that  I  love  you  that  is 
true — but"  she  continued  perplexedly,  "the  last  you 
say,  that  I  am  yours,  I  don't  know  about  that/'  And 
as  she  spoke  her  head,  her  voice  assumed  an  odd  seri- 
ousness. "That's  the  part  that  can  never  be  arranged," 
she  said  sadly.  "I  am  not  yours,  I  am  not  my  own, 
Lowell,  I  belong  to  my  father."  Before  he  could  speak 
she  said  again:  "Xo,  Lowell,  don't  try  to  prevail  upon 
me  to  make  any  promise.  We  must  wait.  I  love  you; 
you  love  me.  We  can  go  no  further;  that  is  all,"  and 
her  earnest  face  lost  its  color  as  she  recalled  the  only 
tragedy  of  her  life;  the  time  that  George  had  asked  for 
her. 

"But,  Doyt,  dear,"  Low^ell  said  tenderly  and  anx- 
iously: "Do  you  think  that  your  father  will  refuse  to 
give  you  to  me — ever?  That  he  will  not  give  you  to 
me  sometime — a  long  ways  off;  that  is,  if  he  is  certain 
that  you  love  me?" 

"Lowell,  look  here,"  she  said  gently,  "you  don't  un- 
derstand what  I  mean.  Ko  matter  if  out  of  consider- 
ation for  my  happiness,  he  should  consent,"  she  as- 
serted with  a  voice  full  of  emotion,  "I  could  ncYer 
leave  him.  You  don't  know  what  my  love  for  him  is, 
I/owell;  its  heighth,  its  depth,  its  earnestness,  its  in- 
tensity could  never  be  measured.  I  never  want  to  lose 
one  hour  of  his  companionship  that  can  be  given  me 
while  he  and  I  live,  and  there  is  no  agony  to  me  like 
the  thought  that  some  day  he  may  be  taken  from  me. 
I  will  do  nothing  without  his  consent.  I  would  die  to 
save  him  from  pain.  I  should  only  prove  myself  sel- 
fish and  hard  if  I  should  consent  to  leave  him — if  I 
siiould  show  myself  in  any  way  willing  to  do  so.  I 
do  not  love  you  any  the  less  Lowell,  for  loving  him  so 
much,"  she  said  consolingly.  "I  should  not  be  worthy 
of  you  if  I  were  not  true  to  my  father.  You  don't  un- 
derstand, Lowell,  you  can't  understand,  for  I  think  no 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  ig^ 

Other  girl  ever  had  such  a  father  as  I  have  been  blessed 
with." 

She  arose  from  her  seat  and  for  a  moment  gave  him 
her  hand,  and  then  side  by  side  thev  walked  up  the 
slope  that  led  to  the  house. 


;l^f)-2  -^'S'  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Dr.  Harding  was  sitting  alone  on  the  long  porch  of 
the  hotel  that  evening. 

A  great  camp  fire  had  been  kindled  in  full  view  of 
the  house,  but  at  some  little  distance  from  it.  There 
were  seats  about  the  fire;  the  guests  had  gathered  for 
the  evening  entertainment  and  he  could  hear  the  tun- 
ing of  the  instruments. 

Was  there  ever  such  brilliant  cheer  and  was  ever 
banquet  hall  so  grandly  adorned? 

Stately  rows  of  redwoods  of  equal  vastness  formed 
the  walls  and  they  were  overladen  with  decoration 
formed  by  the  dark-fringed  foliage  of  the  pines  and 
the  firs  and  the  richly-fresh  sprays  of  the  younger 
growths. 

There  was  such  gleaming  and  sparkling  of  lights  as 
the  wide,  gladsome  fire  flashed  upwards  carrying  with 
it  blithesome  assemblages  of  sparks,  throwing  ruddy 
illumination  even  upon  the  domed  roof,  or  sending 
broad  rays  of  light  quivering  among  the  green  aisles, 
gilding  the  branches  or  glowing  among  the  leaves  or 
flickering  upon  the  broad  verdant  masses  below.  The 
whole  air  was  so  elatively,  deliciously,  delusively  fra- 
grant, and  now  as  he  listened,  soft,  delightful  melody 
thrilled  through     the  night  stillness. 

As  he  quietly  looked  on  he  saw  Doyt  and  Lowell 
leave  the  company,  saw  them  come  slowly  up  the  walk, 
and  then  with  timid  manner  come  and  stop  before 
him.  From  the  constrained  manner  of  each  the  doctor 
knew  that  they  had  something  of  importance  to  im- 
part to  him.  Looking  up  into  the  face  that  bent  above 
them,  "Father,  I  love  Lowell,  and  Lowell  loves  me,^' 
the  girl  said  simply,  "and  we  have  come  to  tell  you." 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  193 

Lowell  was  surprised  to  feel  that  while  the  afternoon 
had  seemed  the  happiest  he  had  ever  known,  this  pres- 
ent occasion  seemed  the  solemnest. 

To  the  surprise  of  each  the  doctor  did  not  start  or 
turn  pale,  but  from  his  seat  looked  smilingly  down 
upon  them.  With  rare  and  peculiar  gentleness,  he 
said: 

"And  how  long,  mv  children,  since  you  have  found 
this  out?" 

Looking  toward  Doyt,  Lowell  answered,  "Only  this 
afternoon.  Doctor,"  and  Doyt  repeated,  "Yes,  only  this 
afternoon." 

The  broad  fire  flickered  behind  them,  but  the  soft 
moonlight  coming  through  between  the  branches  of 
the  live-oaks  that  shaded  the  house  gilded  Doyt's  light 
dress  and  touched  up  her  fluffy  hair,  outlined  LowelFs 
stalwart  form  and  brought  out  into  perfect  clearness 
his  handsome,  expressive  face. 

Dr.  Harding  arose  from  his  chair,  "And  now  what 
is  it  you  want  of  me?"  he  said  affably.  And  then  in 
deeper  tone,  "If  it  is  a  father's  approval  and  blessing, 
you  have  it." 

The  beautiful  pair  stood  before  him  with  lowered 
heads  and  the  sweet  peace  of  his  own  pure  life  came 
over  them  and  their  over-strained  nerves  found  rest. 

Doyt  left  LowelFs  side  and  went  quickly  up  the 
steps.  "Sit  down,  father,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
infinite  tenderness,  and  laying  her  hand  gently  upon 
his  own.  When  he  was  seated  she  stood  by  his  side. 
"Father,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  way  peculiar  to  herself, 
"I  want  you  to  know  that  there  is  no  living  being  be- 
tween us.  Lowell  has  exacted  nothing  of  me  and  T 
have  made  no  promise.  We  came  together  to  lay  the 
ease  before  you  and  to  allow  you  to  decide.  But 
father,  while  what  we  have  told  you  is  true,  that 
Lowell  and  I  love  each  other,"  the  deep,  eloquent  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  she  added  in  choked  voice,  "I 
couldn^t  go  away  father,  no,  not  even  with  Lowell,  and 
leave  you." 
13 


194  ^^  ^^^^  MADE  HER. 

As  Lowell  listened,  his  heart  gave  a  tremendous 
throb  and  he  felt  keenly  his  own  great  unworthiness. 
He  stood  with  his  foot  on  the  lower  step  and  looked  np 
into  the  face  of  the  man  before  him,  read  its  wistful 
expression,  with  a  mingling  of  love,  reverence  and  re- 
spect, and  as  he  looked  he  tried  to  reach  the  degree  of 
contempt  for  himself  which  he  thought  such  a  father 
must  feel  toward  one  who  would  rob  him  of  the  dear- 
est thing  of  all  he  possessed. 

The  father  took  the  girFs  soft  hand  and  laid  it 
gently  and  in  the  old  way  against  his  cheek.  With 
delicate  discernment  he  saw  that  the  young  people  be- 
fore him  were  in  a  state  of  suspense  and  suffering,  and 
he  kindly  and  judiciously  sought  to  bring  to  their 
minds  relief. 

He  was  silent  only  for  a  moment.  His  face  was  pale 
but  he  spoke  with  cheerful  voice. 

"This  important  secret,"  he  announced  to  them, 
"which  you  guileless  young  creatures,  never  suspecting, 
have  dutifully  divulged  here  to-night,  though  it  seems 
it  was  not  till  you  came  into  the  solitude  of  the 
primeval  forest  that  you  found  it  out,  is  not  new  to 
me.  I  have  knowm  about  it  for  some  time,"  he  con- 
tinued blandly,  as  he  softly  caressed  his  daughter's 
hand,  "and  I  have  been  preparing  myself  for  just  such 
an  exigency.  I  have  thought  over  the  subject  ma- 
turely." He  continued  earnestlv:  "If  not  now,  my 
daughter,  I  know  that  the  time  will  come  when  in 
spite  of  our  best  efforts  you  will  be  lonely  with  no  one 
to  care  for  you  but  Dorcas  and  me.  It  would  not  be 
well  to  keep  you  in  solitude;  you  must  have  company 
of  your  own  age,"  and  as  he  talked  she  understood  his 
meaning  well.  She  knew  that  he  would  consent  to 
anything  that  he  thought  would  make  her  happy  even 
though  it  brought  him  misery. 

"As  I  said,"  he  continued,  looking  at  Lowell,  his 
eyes  kindling  significantly,  "I  have  been  expecting 
something  like  this,  and  I  have  already  in  my  mind  a 
deliberately  formed  plan.  My  boy,  you  have  only  to 
agree  to  one  proposition  and  everything  will  be  ar- 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  195 

ranged.     That  proposition  is,  Lowell,  that  you  come  to 
us." 

The  young  man  looked  up  into  the  face  as  if  doubt- 
ful of  his  own  hearing. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  understand  you,  Doctor," 
he  said  respectfully. 

"What  I  mean,' Lowell,  is  this.  When  you  are 
through  with  your  studies  in  the  city,  you  take  my 
little  girl  here  for  your  own,  and  you  come  and  settle 
here  with  me  and  assist  me  with  my  practice.  No, 
do  not  thank  me,"  as  Lowell  attempted  to  speak.  "I 
shall  need  you.  My  proposition  in  full  is,  Lowell,  that 
you  form  a  partnership  with  me  at  the  same  time  you 
enter  into  one  with  my  daughter;  then  giving  up  all 
apprehension  and  worry,"  he  said  wiping  away  the 
tears  from  Doyt's  eyes,  "we  will  just  prepare  ourselves 
for  a  happy  future  together." 

Still,  with  a  feeling  of  deep  disregard  for  the  young 
fellow^  who  Avould  ask  a  man  to  give  up  his  only  daugh- 
ter, yet  with  a  heart  full  of  gratitude,  Lowell  went  up 
the  steps  and  took  the  doctor's  extended  hand. 

"You  have  been  more  than  just  with  me.  Doctor 
Harding,  the  world  could  hold  for  me  no  higher 
honor,"  he  said  reverently,  "than  you  have  conferred 
upon  me."  And  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  told  of  a 
deeper  devotion  than  would  a  hundred  vows. 

"May  Heaven  make  me  worthy  of  it!" 

While  the  young  suitor  stood  passively  before  him, 
in  the  hand  Dr.  Harding  held,  he  placed  Doyt's  soft, 
yielding  palm,  and  said  brokenly:  "There  are  few 
whom  I  would  so  trust;  but  take  her,  Lowell;  she  is 
yours." 

Like  the  caressings  of  love,  on  the  silent  night  air 
fell  the  soft  melody  of  the  stringed  instruments. 

Tim  had  been  hard  at  work  piling  loads  of  brush  on 
the  glowing  fire,  and  the  brilliant,  glaring  light  of  it 
gilded  the  pathway  that  led  down  to  it  from  the  house, 
as  a  few  minutes  later  Dr.  Harding,  his  "children"  on 
either  side  of  him  strolled  leisurely  down  its  winding 
way. 


196  ^'S'  GOD  MADE  UER. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  few  weeks  later  as  Lowell  went  aboard  the  ferry- 
boat to  cross  from  the  city  to  Oakland,  he  met  his 
cousin  George. 

Lowell,  in  these  days,  went  always  carrying  about 
in  his  mind  a  cheering  lovely  picture;  sunny  hair,  blue, 
soulful  eyes,  a  round  dimpled  chin,  tinted  cheeks,  a 
dainty  symmetrical  form.  He  carried  also  in  his  pock- 
ets to-day  several  dainty  bits  of  letters;  they  were 
addressed  in  a  fine  hand  to  Lowell  Livingston. 

Hi  spite  of  his  inward  satisfaction  there  was  no  trace 
of  exultation  in  his  manner  as  he  gave  George  his  hand. 
Indeed,  when  he  noticed  that  his  cousin  was  looking 
him  over  with  searching  scrutiny  he  made  great  effort 
at  indifference  and  feared  lest  George  should  read  his 
happiness  in  his  eyes. 

When  the  cousins  were  seated  side  by  side  George 
took  up  some  time  in  telling  how  well  he  was  prosper- 
ing financially,  told  of  the  latest  doings  at  the  club; 
then  he  talked  of  a  recent  fashionable  party  and  of 
those  who  attended.  They  had  gone  but  a  short  dis- 
tance on  the  water  when  there  ensued  an  awkward 
pause. 

Lowell  here  had  splendid  opportunity  to  impart  the 
information  of  his  wonderful  fortune  to  his  compan- 
ion. But  the  two  separated  without  his  having  spoken 
of  it.  While  he  felt  that  the  whole  world  had  reason 
to  rejoice  with  him  he  could  not  ask  it  of  George. 
How  George  would  have  conducted  himself  toward  him 
under  the  same  circumstances,  furnished  no  rule  for 
his  sentiment  toward  his  cousin.  He  realized  to  the 
full  the  forlorn  depression  he  would  have  been  laboring 
under  had  George  been  the  fortunate  one;  and  when 
he  looked  upon  him,  he  felt  a  strain  of  pity;  such  as  he 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  197 

might  feel  for  one  who  had  lost  his  sight  or  his  hear- 
ing or  was  in  some  way  cut  off  from  the  joys  of  life. 

In  all  the  world  there  was  only  one  Doyt;  in  his 
mind  to  lose  her  was  to  lose  everything. 

George  still  visited  sometimes  at  Oaklawn.  Once 
soon  after  the  return  of  the  household  from  the  red- 
woods it  was  just  as  the  young  man  was  leaving  the 
house  that  the  doctor,  being  alone  with  him,  said: 
"Owing  to  a  conversation  that  once  was  held  between 
us,  George,  I.  feel  that  it  is  proper  for  me  now  to  tell 
you,  though  the  event  has  not  yet  been  made  public, 
that  my  daughter  has  at  length  chosen  for  herself  and 
that  1  have  sanctioned  her  choice.'' 

His  companion  looked  up  with  a  sudden  frown  and 
answered  equivocally:  "I  am  sure.  Dr.  Harding,  it  is 
kind  of  you  to  tell  me.'' 

A  moment  later  there  was  not  a  sign  that  it  cost  him 
anything  to  say  it,  for  he  added  with  cordialty: 

"Doctor,  thanking  you  for  your  confidence,  allow  me 
to  congratulate  you;  your  daughter  must  have  made  a 
wise  choice,  since  you  have  seen  fit  to  ratify  her  selec- 
tion." 

In  the  months  succeeding,  there  were  few  changes  at 
Oaklawn.  The  sun  shone  down  upon  it  with  the  same 
unrestrained  beneficence;  it  gleamed  through  the 
spaces  made  by  the  tree  branches;  poured  its  flood  in  at 
the  open  windows,  lay  upon  the  balconies  with  caress- 
ing warmth;  gilded  the  dew-drops  which  lay  upon  the 
grass  tips,  warmed  the  orchards,  and  tinted  the  roses. 
The  air  about  the  peaceful  retreat  was  just  as  crisp 
and  fragrant.  Among  the  treetops  the  birds  sang  the 
old,  sweet  strains.  The  grounds  were  as  carefully 
kept  and  seemed  to  grow  in  entrancing  beauty.  The 
animals  about  the  place  were  as  sleek-skinned  and  con- 
tent. 

Tim  found  the  world  around  him  just  as  fasci- 
natingly entertaining  and  was  as  friskily  active  as  ever. 
Doyt  seemed  sweeter,  purer,  lovelier. 


198  ^S  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

Dorcas,  that  discreet  tactician  and  miracle  of  adapta- 
tion, was  still  making  use  of  her  rare  ability  in  add- 
ing to  the  homelikeness  of  the  place,  and  the  doctor, 
gentle,  broad-minded,  manly,  modestly  speaking  his 
thought,  went  about  mending  the  bodies,  smoothing 
the  fortunes,  and  broadening  the  lives  of  the  people 
he  came  among. 

When  the  early  summer  months  came  round  and 
they  deemed  that  there  was  budding  and  flowering 
again  even  in  stern  New  England,  the  Eastern  people 
had  taken  passage  home. 

On  the  morning  of  their  departure  the  couple  had 
arisen  very  early.  Soon  after  the  dawn  John  had  paid 
a  visit  to  the  stables  and  had  lingered  at  the  stall  of 
each  of  the  horses,  patting  the  row  of  velvety  noses 
in  farewell.  He  went  out  and  looked  over  the  or- 
chards and  w^alked  through  the  vineyards  and  paused 
awhile  among  the  dogs  that  fawned  affectionately  upon 
him. 

The  family  ate  their  last  meal  together,  and  when 
they  left  the  house  the  doctor  and  Dorcas  were  with 
them  and  accompanied  them  as  far  as  the  city  on  their 
journey. 

They  had  each  bidden  the  people  of  the  household 
good-bye  and  to  Tim,  who  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
porch,  llhoda  with  cold  cynicism  had  affirmed  that  she 
"hoped  that  somebody  would  yet  take  him  in  hands 
that  would  keep  him  within  bounds." 

Doyt  looked  on  and  saw  her  aunt  leaving  with  a 
feeling  of  keen  self-reproach  that  she  had  never  been 
able  to  love  her  better. 

When  her  Uncle  John  was  saying  good-bye  he 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  ripe  lips  saying: 

"Doyt,  when  you  see  again  that  young  lover  of  yours, 
you  explain  to  him  that  I  kissed  you  because  I  knew 
that  I  should  never  again  get  a  chance  to  kiss  another 
such  a  pretty  girl.''  Touching  her  dimpled  chin,  he 
raised  her  face  to  his  and  continued:  "Surely,  I  don't 
think  he  will  be  so  very  angry  then,  do  you?" 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  199 

With  great  tenderness  lie  said:  "Good-bye,  little 
one/'-'  and  in  a  moment  they  had  entered  the  Pullman 
at  Oakland  pier,  and  their  eyes  had  rested  for  the  last 
time  on  their  Eastern  relatives.  Their  visit  had  been 
prolonged  many  months,  and  on  both  sides  much  had 
been  learned,  and  much  had  come  in  the  form  of  a 
revelation. 

A  year  and  a  half  before  the  couple  had  left  their 
niche  among  the  hills  with  only  the  very  slightest 
knowledge  of  what  lay  outside  of  it. 

In  the  meantime  John  had  grown  toward  his 
brother's  stature.  Once  when  they  were  together  he 
had  said  to  him: 

"It  is  lovely  here,  but  then,  among  the  rocks  is 
home.'^ 

Now,  as  he  was  leaving  Oaklawn,  where  rest  and 
comfort  and  even  luxury  had  been  matters  of  daily 
habit,  his  life  there  in  retrospect  seemed  perfect;  he 
knew  that  he  was  relinquishing  the  beauty  and  the 
freedom  and  the  space  and  the  color,  and  that  he  was 
going  back  to  narrow  boundaries  and  to  dullness  and 
hardship. 

As  he  was  riding  along  all  he  said  to  his  brother  on 
the  subject  was: 

"I've  freshened  up  wonderfully  since  I  have  been 
here."  At  the  same  time  he  realized  how  completely 
he  had  changed,  and  knew  that  he  would  never  quite 
fit  again  into  the  old  place. 

They  parted  at  the  wharf;  the  beautiful  bay  sparkl-' 
ing  and  rippling  in  the  sunlight;  here  and  there  its 
smooth  surface  cut  by  the  great  white  boats  which  ply 
constantly  to  and  fro. 

Together  they  stepped  up  to  the  narrow  entrance 
which  led  to  the  boat;  the  crowd  let  the  travelers  pass, 
and  the  brothers  were  soon  separated  forever. 


200  ^^  ^OD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTEE  XLI. 

Lowell  had  gained  at  last  a  definite  conquest;  with 
diploma  in  hand  he  left  the  college.  The  course  had 
been  long,  but  he  still  clung  to  sufficient  healthful  in- 
stinct to  feel  an  exuberant  joy  at  being  free. 

He  was  not  certain  that  his  mere  graduation  had 
made  any  great  enhancement  of  his  merit  or  any  de- 
cided change  in  his  manners  or  his  aspect,  nevertheless, 
he  spent  a  few  days  after  the  event  in  a  strenuous 
effect  to  familiarize  himself  with  his  new  and  digni- 
fied position  in  the  world. 

The  young  man  had  striven  arduously  for  what  he 
had  won,  and  it  was  as  though  a  laurel  crown  was  laid 
upon  his  brow  when  two  letters  of  congratulation 
came  from  Oaklawn,  addressed  to  "Lowell  Livingston, 
M.  D." 

After  receiving  his  degree  he  had  gone  as  physician 
into  a  private  hospital  in  the  city  that  he  might  add 
experience  to  theory  and  feel  thoroughly  equipped  to 
battle  against  disease. 

During  the  months  that  followed  he  threw  his  soul 
into  his  employment.  He  had  a  natural  aptitude  foT 
the  work  and  a  love  for  the  science  of  it;  he  came  to 
a  comprehension  also  of  the  humanity  in  it,  but  be- 
sides these  incentives  were,  the  almost  more  potent 
ones  of  the  doctor's  faith  in  his  ability  and  Doyt's  love 
for  him. 

In  some  cases  the  responsibility  seemed  heavy,  the 
teaching  not  gentle,  but  he  profited  by  each  severe  ex- 
perience. 

Eealizing  the  tremendous  odds  that  human  life  de- 
pended upon  his  judgment  and  skill,  he  made  incessant 
and  intelligent  effort  to  make  himself  equal  to  the  de- 
mands. 


A  ST0R7  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  201 

r  Put  to  the  test,  he  learned  to  diagnose  with  keen 
precision,  and  came  to  feel  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the 
occasion  which  called  into  use  all  his  natural  ahility 
as  wtII  as  his  rigid  training. 

As  time  passed  on,  though  his  visits  were  of  neces- 
sity short,  he  was  often  at  Oaklawn. 

Once  when  Doyt  and  her  father  w^ere  in  the  city  he 
had  accompanied  them  home;  then  there  came  the 
evening  meal  with  the  family  in  the  hospitable  dining- 
room,  the  sweet  earnest  face  so  pleasant  to  look  into, 
the  ideal  of  his  dreams,  just  opposite. 

After  the  meal  they  sat  and  talked,  and  the  doctor 
placed  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  to  his 
young  guest  the  sweetness  of  his  soul  as  well  as  the 
depth  of  his  intellect  were  plainly  manifest  as  the 
words  fell  from  his  lips,  well-chosen  and  in  a  steady 
flow. 

In  the  evening,  a  rain  having  fallen,  they  gathered 
about  a  sparkling  grate  fire  and  the  precious  hours  flew 
by  till  Lowell  was  warned  that  he  must  leave  to  catch 
the  night  train  for  home.  When  he  and  Doyt  went 
outside  the  stars  were  bright  again  in  the  night  sky 
above  them  and  under  the  branches  of  the  oak  he 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips  and  was  gone. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  week,  inspired  by  a  wild  long- 
ing to  see  her  again  and  tremulously  joyful,  he  was 
m'aking  preparations  to  go  dowm  again. 

How  he  ran  on  to  catch  the  train!  Then  there  was 
a  delay  at  the  station — even  the  train  appeared  to  move 
slowly.  Two  or  three  times  it  even  came  to  a  dead 
stop.  While  he  was  trying  to  make  the  most  of  the 
minutes  that  he  might  remain  at  Oaklawn  the  longer. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  only  had  stray  glimpses 
of  her  when  he  was  down  before.  Then  he  was  off 
the  car  and  knew  that  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
should  be  in  her  presence,  knew  that  she  was  waiting 
for  him.  How  light  were  his  feet!  How  fast  he 
could  walk!     How  he  hurried  on  to  catch  the  first  view 


202  ^^  ^'OD  MADE  HER. 

of  the  gates  and  the  tree-tops!  Another  block  passed, 
then  another;  then  he  came  in  sight  of  the  familiar 
grounds  and  the  lawn  and  the  flowers  and  the  house. 
At  last  his  steps  were  grinding  upon  the  gravel  walk 
and  before  him  w^as  the  beaming  face;  he  felt  again  the 
sweet  consciousness  that  he  was  looked  for  and  wel- 
comed. 


.4    t^'TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  203 


CHAPTEE  XLII. 

For  the  wedding  they  had  chosen  a  moonlight  even- 
ing in  ^lay. 

On  the  appointed 'day  nature  seemed  to  have  made 
universal  festival;  the  air  was  of  a  peculiar  mellowness, 
and  rich  with  spring  redolence,,  and  the  pink  and 
white  blossoms  of  the  orchards,  the  foliage  of  the  trees 
completely  hidden  by  their  luxuriance,  stretched  far 
away  to  the  hillsides,  making  of  the  whole  valley  a 
dainty  sea  of  beauty. 

The  shade  trees  about  Oaklawn,  freshly  green  under 
their  new  growths,  sent  out  spicy  odors,  and  the 
sunny  California  life  about  them  seemed  to  have  burst 
into  color. 

In  every  part  of  the  place  there  was  luster,  bril- 
liancy, splendor,  glare,  glory.  The  innumerable 
creations  of  flowering  plants  flaunted  their  unfolded 
tintings  in  a  mad  ecstacy  of  display. 

Eich  blossoms  had  taken  possession  of  open  space, 
nook,  and  corner;  the  flower  plats  blazed;  lavish  hues 
gleamed  among  the  borders  and  along  the  trim  hedges; 
the  trellises  w*^re  afire  with  color  and  the  house  sides 
were  hidden  in  ostentatious  decorations. 

Xature  everywhere  had  been  uremittingly  busy. 
From  lattice  to  lattice  roses  were  stretched  in  huge 
pink  cables;  in  the  bushes  which  bore  them  there  were 
odd  branchings  and  divisions  of  the  branches,  and 
seemingly  impossible  subdivisions  and  every  limb, 
bough,  sjprig,  shoot,  branchlet,  twig,  and  stem  was  oc- 
cupied. From  every  improbable  point,  wuth  aggressive 
force  it  seemed,  and  in  an  exhilarated  frenzy  and 
squandering  liberality  of  numbers,  roses  pressed, 
rushed,  pushed,  thronged,  crowded,  swarmed. 


204  "^^  ^^^D  MADE  HER. 

Among  the  multitudes  there  existed  strong  con- 
trasts, for  in  hue  they  ranged  from  the  dense  colorings 
of  the  Jacqueminot  to  the  faint,  etherialized  tintings 
of  tiie  Niphetos;  and  each  one  among  the  millions  so 
carefully  arranged  were  so  daintily,  exquisitely,  soul- 
fu'lly  beautiful. 

Scarce  could  conception  of  greater  glory  enter  into 
the  human  heart,  for  the  earth  seemed  to  have  shaped 
itself  into  the  very  loveliness  of  Jieaven. 

And  when  the  sunny  glory  of  the  day  was  done  and 
the  birds'  songs  had  ceased  among  the  foliage,  and 
the  great,  quiet  moon  arose  and  sent  down  upon  it 
a  flood  of  silver  glory  in  its  setting  of  dainty  blossom- 
ing, the  home-place  lav  calm  and  dream-like  as  an 
Eden. 

Lights  gleamed  from  every  window  of  the  house, 
and  by  the  lavish  use  of  green  and  white  in  the  decora- 
tion of  the  main  rooms  the  whole  place  seemed  trans- 
formed into  a  charming  love-nest. 

Carriage  after  carriage  came  winding  its  way  through 
the  grounds,  depositing  its  occupants  at  the  veranda 
steps,  and  in  the  wide  hall  near.  Dr.  Harding  and  Dor- 
cas received  their  guests. 

The  betrothed  pair  stood  together  in  an  upper  room. 
Lowell  in  his  splendid  symmetry  and  his  athletic 
strength,  handsome  as  a  model,  and  Doyt  in  filmy 
white  drapery,  without  train  or  veil,  a  bouquet  of  deli- 
cate white  blossoms  pinned  to  her  corsage,  her  beauti- 
ful supple  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder;  about  the  fair 
fresh  face  the  soft  clustering  golden  locks. 

The  window  of  the  room  in  which  the  bridal  pair 
stood  was  open  to  the  evening  breezes. 

Outside  they  could  hear  the  echo  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  upon  the  driveway  and  the  sound  of  voices  as 
the  people  stepped  gaily  from  their  equipages,  and 
from  below  came  the  chatter  of  assembled  guests. 

"Come  here,  Doyt,  will  you?"  Lowell  requested, 
gently  taking  her  by  the  hand  and  advancing  toward 
the  open  window.     "Now,  stand  in  the  moonlight,"  he 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  205 

said  placing  her  and  stepping  backward  that  he  might 
survey  the  picture  she  made.  "There,  in  the  full 
light  of  it,  and  let  it  shine  down  upon  you  just  as  it 
did  that  night,  you  know,  down  there  in  the  grounds. 
There,^'  he  said,  his  face  lighting  up,  "that's  the  way 
you  looked;  Just  as  beautiful  now  as  vou  were  that 
night.'' 

There  she  stood  in  her  youthful  purity  and  freshness, 
smiling,  moved  by  a  sense  of  his  sincerity,  and  as  she 
extended  one  hand  toward  him  the  glinting  moon- 
beams crept  noiselessly  in,  and  light  and  soft  shade 
succeeding  each  other  and  bringing  out  a  beauty  so 
perfect,  so  uncommon,  so  divine,  that  it  seemed  it  must 
belong  to  the  world  of  art. 

There  w^as  a  look  of  adoration  on  Lowell's  face  as 
he  took  the  extended  hand.  Caressing  it  softly,  he 
said:  "How  far  away  it  seems,  that  other  moonlight 
evening,  Doyt!  I  never  expected  to  win  you  then;  I 
did  not  even  dare  to  wish  for  it." 

Pressing  to  his  lips  the  fair  hand  he  held,  he  con- 
tinued, looking  out  on  the  lawn:  "It  is  just  such  a 
night,  Doyt,  and  yet  how  dissimilar!  You  were  a  long 
ways  off  from  me  then.  Why,  Doyt,  I  was  thankful  in 
those  days  to  be  permitted  to  stand  under  the  same 
sky." 

Dorcas  came  up  the  stairs  a  moment  later.  Doyt 
went  to  her  quickly,  and  asked  with  earnestness: 
"Where  is  father,  Aunt  Dorcas?" 

After  studying  her  face  a  moment  she  laid  her  head 
on  Dorcas'  broad  shoulder  and  said  tenderly: 

"If  I  only  knew  that  to-night  he  was  smothering  no 
heartache  I  should  be  happy." 

Strains  of  glad  music  came  floating  to  their  ears 
on  the  soft  night  air,  and  the  beautiful  couple,  repre- 
sentative of  the  Creator's  best  work,  sound  in  every 
fiber  and  life  glad  Avithin  them  as  it  is  in  the  singing 
birds,  went  down  the  open  stairway  together. 

In  the  long  room,  with  the  broad-leaved  green 
plants  of  the  conservatory  for  a  background,  standing 


oQ(5  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

under  a  swinging  arch  of  blossoms,  the  twain  who 
loved,  plighting  their  vows,  were  one  according  to  the 
wise  Creator's  23lan. 

While  Do3^t  stood  by  her  young  husband  receiving 
the  congratulations  of  friends,  she  recalled  the  fact 
that  George  had  been  one  of  the  invited  guests,  and 
she  found  herself  looking  around  in  curious  confusion 
to  see  if  he  were  present.  After  a  short  interval  she 
caught  a  view  of  him  among  the  throng  and  soon  he 
came  forward  tranquilly  courteous,  and  greeted  them. 

He  extended  to  them  wishes  for  a  happy  life.  He 
congratulated  Lowell  on  the  exquisite  fairness  of  his 
bride. 

Study  his  manner  as  closely  as  you  might,  there  was 
nothing  in  it  to  prove  any  inward  irritation;  not  the 
least  reminder  in  anything  he  said  or  did  that  they  had 
once  been  rivals;  that  he  was  still  smarting  under  the 
mortification  of  baffled  plans,  there  was  not  the  least 
sign. 

To  Boyt  it  was  evident  that  there  had  been  nothing 
in  her  rejection  of  him  that  had  been  permanently 
fatal  to  his  peace.  This  conviction  brought  her  great 
relief  and  she  felt  that  it  was  ver^^  kind  of  George  to 
make  honest  attempt  to  prove  to  them  both,  that  he 
remained  still  their  friend. 

With  Lowell  the  case  was  different.  He  had  never 
in  the  least  censured  George  for  loving  Doyt. 

Having  met  her  and  come  within  her  sweet  in- 
fluence, that  they  both  should  be  competitors  for  her 
hand  seemed  to  him  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world. 

Being  present  here  at  his  marriage  to  Doyt,  George's 
self  control  was  so  perfect  that  it  won  his  respect  and 
sympathy.  The  young  man  tried  hard  not  to  under- 
rate his  cousin,  and  yet  be  would  rather  George  had 
not  come;  there  was  something  jarring  to  his  nature 
in  his  very  presence  there.  He  was  himself  in  no  way 
persuaded  that  George's  love  for  Doyt  had  abated. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  £07 

I.owell.  who  knew  him  better  than  either  Doyt  or 
her  father,  was  clear-sighted  enough  to  see  that 
George's  control  of  himself  was  portentous — that  it 
boded  evil  rather  than  good. 

After  leaving  their  side  he  saw  him  go  about 
among  the  guests  with  easy  gaiety  and  a  ready  flow  of 
wit,  handsome,  distinguished  looking,  maintaining  a 
sort  of  supremacy  among  them.  As  he  watched  his 
manner,  he  said  to  himself:  ^^George  is  not  the  sort  of 
a  fellow  to  readily  change  or  relinquish  a  project. 
Though  I  have  known  him  to  postpone  a  purpose  I  have 
never  known  him  to  entirely  abandon  one." 

Doyt's  father,  who  stood  at  a  little  distance,  had  ob- 
served Lowell  through  the  ordeal  of  George's  near 
presence;  he  w^as  pleased  that  in  Lowell's  superb  man- 
ner there  was  not  the  least  sign  of  vulgar  triumph. 


208  AS  GODMADtJ  HEK. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  lives  of  the  family  at  Oaldawn  shaped  themselves 
into  a  beautiful  harmoB3\  The  married  pair  found 
nothing  to  regret  in  the  vows  they  had  taken,  nothing 
chafing  in  the  bonds  that  bound  them.  With  them 
love  found  an  atmosphere  where  it  fed  upon  the  rare 
food  that  suited  its  nature.  It  expanded  and  grew, 
nourished  by  .smiles  of  welcome  and  approval,  a  genial 
show  of  appreciation,  by  kindly  looks,  by  the  quiet 
pressure  of  the  hand  and  by  unselfish  deeds.  Each 
deemed  the  other  worth  retaining  as  well  as  worth 
winning  and  possessing.  The  affection  that  had 
sprung  up  betAveen  them  they  prized  and  held  it  as  too 
sweet  a  thing  to  be  permitted  to  die  out  and  be  lost; 
and  so  as  time  went  on  the  quiet,  loving,  foolish  days 
continued. 

Life  with  them  was  sweet  and  easy  because  it  was 
so  simple. 

The  Creator  dispensed  plenty;  the  sun  shone,  the 
dew  and  the  rain  fell,  the  plants  grew  and  budded,  and 
the  fruit  ripened,  and  they  loved  the  Hand  that  fed 
them  and  gratefully  accepted  His  bounty. 

There  was  no  need  to  worry  or  to  make  faithless 
complaint;  that  was  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  sentient 
being  and  would  argue  an  ingratitude  of  which  they 
would  be  ashamed.  When  they  simply  complied  with 
nature's  law  they  knew  that  her  bounty  never  failed. 
Tn  the  midst  of  unrestricted  opportunities  for  pure  en- 
joyment they  did  not  allow  superstition  to  mark  out 
for  them  a  savorless  life.  They  believed  that  the  verv 
opportunities  were  the  result  of  known  and  considered 
forces,  and  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  take  advantage  of 
them.     In  possession  of    sound  nervous  systems    they 


A    STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  209 

readily  found  the  beautiful  side  of  life,  and  furnished 
an  example,  rare  indeed,  of  people  who  thoroughly 
liA^ed.  Accepting  the  Creator's  gifts  understandingiy, 
there  was  perfect  content  with  their  surroundings — 
there  was  no  repression  of  happy  instincts — no  weari- 
ness of  each  other. 

The  first  object  of  the  young  couple  was  to  quietly 
and  unobtrusively  promote  the  father's  happiness. 

How  pleased  they  were  to  realize  that  Lowell's 
presence  seemed  rather  to  add  to  the  father's  pleasure 
than  to  detract  from  it!  Perhaps  the  doctor,  to  whom 
never  before  had  been  given  a  son,  had  never  felt  the 
lack,  but  whatever  had  been  his  previous  state  of 
mind  on  the  subject  when  it  was  his  privilege  he  not 
only  munificently  opened  his  house  but  liberally  un- 
locked his  heart  to  Lowell.  They  rode  together,  they 
overlooked  the  improvement  of  the  place  together, 
they  conjointly  attended  to  the  practice,  they  did 
laboratory  work  together.  To  come  in  contact  with 
another  investigator  along  kindred  lines  was  a  source 
of  help  as  well  as  satisfaction.  It  was  plain  to  all  that 
the  doctor  had  found  a  new  inspiration,  that  he  had 
gained  an  assistant,  a  companion,  a  tried  and  trusted 
friend  just  at  the  time  of  life  when  he  began  to  feel 
the  need  and  was  in  the  best  condition  to  value  the 
acquisition.  Besides,  the  two  having  the  same  interests 
and  pursuits,  their  mental  natures  assimilated.  Their 
studies  and  researches  all  lay  in  the  same  direction, 
their  business  interests  were  one  and  they  grew  to  a 
unity  of  soul.  Although  the  elder  man  never  exhibited 
a  symptom  of  declining  strength,  though  he  had  the 
same  dignity  of  bearing  that  had  marked  his  earlier 
manhood,  although  his  quick,  alert  step  was  unaltered, 
yet  slowly,  almost  unconsciously,  as  the  time  went  by, 
the  father  gave  iip  the  intense  self-dependence  that 
had  characterized  him,  and  began  to  lean,  at  first  ever 
so  lightly,  on  Lowell. 

Although  the  yiamger  partner  always  depended  upon 
the   senior's  trusted  judgment,  much   of   the   hardest 

14 


210  A.5f  GOD  MADE  HER. 

practice  Lowell  took  upon  himself  and  after  a  time  it 
was  Lowell's  young  brain  that  directed,  and  his  skilled 
hand  that  held  the  knife.  In  major  operations  the 
elder  man  stood  hy  and  commended,  and  in  a  pathetic 
sort  of  way  showed  that  he  felt  honored  to  even  act 
as  the  able  junior  surgeon's  assistant. 

Doyt  found  that  her  father  had  an  honest  interest 
in  Lowell  for  his  own  sake,  independent  of  his  relation- 
ship. It  was  a  source  of  supreme  happiness  to  her  to 
see  how  much  comfort  her  father  seemed  to  find  in 
Lowell's  company.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  to  her 
that  he  could  converse  so  ably  on  the  many  subjects 
in  which  her  father  found  interest. 

Sometimes  they  sought  a  wider  sphere  together,  left 
Oaklawn,  "took  a  dash  out  of  harness,"  as  the  doctor 
described  it.  They  sought  the  foothills  or  lingered 
among  the  mountain  streams  or  recreated  at  the  sea- 
shore. 

The  evenings  they  all  spent  together  at  home  were 
times  of  absolute  contentment,  and  were  looked  for- 
ward to  with  joyous  anticipation.  Sometimes  after  the 
dinner  was  over  they  all  went  down  through  the 
grounds,  where  they  kept  up  individual  acquaintance 
with  each  separate  tree.  Sometimes  they  stopped 
amid  the    permanent    attractions  of  the    flower  beds; 

Sometimes  Dorcas  or  Doyt  announced  the  unfolding 
of  some  rare,  new  blossom  which  event  they  had  all 
been  awaiting.  Often  they  walked  out  through  the 
orchards  and  vineyards,  or  to  the  stables,  or  stopped 
among  the  kennels. 

They  assembled  on  the  veranda  and,  Doyt,  in  her  old 
place  at  her  father's  feet,  w^atched  the  glory  of  the 
sunset.  At  times  the  family  collected  in  the  library 
and  spent  the  time  in  reading,  while  the  doctor  con- 
tinued work  on  his  unfinished  book.  Occasionally 
they  would  gather  in  the  Long  Eoom  for  rest,  for 
music,  or  for  friendly  interchange  of  thought.  There 
always  seemed  to  be  a  charm  in  the  discourse  whether 
it  took  a  whimsical  or  a  philosophical  turn. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  211 

^'It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  w^onder  to  me  that 
Shakespere's  contemporaries  did  not  recognize  his 
divinity/^  the  doctor  said  once.  ''I  mean,''  he  con- 
tinued, "that  he  was  not  so  marked  by  the  special 
honor  conferred  upon  him  in  his  own  day,  that  there 
could  be  no  question  in  regard  to  his  identity  as  au- 
thor of  the  treasured  dramas.  After  all,  though,"  he 
added  a  moment  later,  "the  wonder  is  not  so  much  that 
Shakespere  could  write  such  plays  as  that  any  man 
could  write  them."' 

After  her  brother  had  ceased  speaking,  Dorcas  sat 
a  moment  in  meditation.  Looking  up,  she  declared, 
speaking  slowly:  "There  being  a  question  about  the 
authorship,  I  think  it  strange  that  no  one  has  ever  yet 
adA^anced  the  idea  that  some  woman  might  have  writ- 
ten the  immortal  work."  There  was  a  twinkle  in  the 
gray  eye  as  she  went  on.  "The  excellency  of  the  prod- 
uct is  so  far  beyond  the  ordinary,  that  it  would  be 
no  more  of  a  miracle  that  a  woman  should  write  it 
than  that  a  man  should  do  so.  At  any  rate,"  and  Dor- 
cas smiled  confidently,  "if  no  woman  has  ever  proved 
herself  capable  of  such  composition,  neither  has  an\ 
other  man." 

Among  her  listeners  there  was  no  disdainful  rejec- 
tion of  the  idea,  but  there  was  a  laugh  at  the  novelty 
of  it.  Her  brother  observed,  "Why,  really,  Dorcas,  I 
thiiik  you  must  be  the  first  person  thni  ever  thought 
of  such  a  possibility." 

"Because,"  Dorcas  returned  quickly,  "ii  has  always 
been  taken  for  granted  until  of  late  that  in  the  fe- 
male sex  there  was  a  cerebral  insufficiency.  It's  a 
lucky  thing  for  us,"  she  went  on  laughingly,  "that  one 
woman  has  lived  who  has  compelled  the  world  to  re- 
cognize her  vigorous  mentality,  and  who,  as  a  conser- 
vator of  the  loftiest  philosophy,  is  acknowledged  to 
rank  next  to  Shakespere." 

The  doctor  replied,  "I  can  readily  understand  that 
vou  inean  George  Miot.  Dorcas." 


212  AS  GOD  3IADE  HER. 

^'Yes";  was  Dorcas'  reply,  "and  although  she  has 
not  quite  lifted  her  sex  to  the  masculine  level,  yet  I 
think  it  owes  her  more  gratitude  than  to  any  other 
human  being,  because,"  she  added,  "it  is  by  George 
Eliot's  works  only  that  woman  has  been  saved  from 
being  classed  among  imbeciles/' 

A  little  while  afterward,  Doyt,  who  had  been  think- 
ing deeply,  remarked:  "So  far,  in  the  world's  history, 
the  production  of  Shakespere's  plays  seems  to  be  re- 
garded   as  the  greatest    of  all  human    achievements. 
And  Shakespere,  having  been  an  English  subject,  and 
having  written  in  the  English  language,  has  done  more 
to  give  England  prestige  among  nations  than  all  the 
rulers  she  ever  had  or  all  the  battles  she  ever  fought." 
"I  agree  with  you  in  that,"  said  Lowell.     "England 
would  not  be  England  without  her  Shakespere.     It  is 
strange,  too,  the  rank  it  takes  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it.     His  plays  are  only  a  work  of  art,  and  on  the 
line    with    the  best    in    painting,  and    sculpture,  and 
music.       Raphael's    'Coronation'    and    Thorwald  son's 
Trocession    to    Golgotha'     are    each   the    product    of 
some  comprehensive  soul;  yet  literature  seems  great- 
est of  all.     While  the  painter  and  the  sculptor  copy  the 
beaatiful,  the  writer  alone  creates  the  beautiful.     Of 
all  art,  literature  seems  to  be  the  greatest  in  its  reach 
and  effect.     While  one  human  eye  gazes  upon  a  statue 
or   painting,   the   printed   thought   goes   into   all   lan- 
guages and  reaches  all  nations." 

It  was  thus  that  the  days  passed,  and  they  were 
happy  in  their  surroundings  and  asking  for  nothing 
better — while  the  conversation  led  by  the  doctor 
varied,  sprightly  and  \vitty,  grave  and  gay,  was  like  an 
exquisite   repast. 


A  STOUy  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  213 

i   UN 


CHAPTEE  XLIV. 

It  was  when  Lowell  had  been  with  them  something 
more  than  a  year,  he  and  the  doctor  were  out  on  the 
rose-hung  veranda,  where  Dorcas  and  Doyt  joined 
them. 

The  tumult  of  summer  blossoming  was  around  them; 
the  ground  near  was  purple  with  violets,  miles  of  green 
verdure  stretched  beyond;  the  air  they  breathed,  fresh- 
washed  from  the  sea,  and  the  evening  sky  a  glory  of 
red  and  gold  and  purple. 

Tim  having  shown  a  predilection  for  music,  the 
violin  the  doctor  had  bought  him  afforded  the  little 
fellow  much  amusement.  But  such  passionate  sadness 
and  misery  lay  underneath  the  tones  he  drew  from  the 
instrument  that  Dorcas  had  relegated  him  to  a  seat  be- 
neath the  old  oak  tree  for  practice.  There  he  was  now, 
his  little  form  curled  up  on  the  bench,  with  drawn  face 
zealously  scraping  at  the  strings.  He  was  full  of  in- 
spiration and  perhaps  producing  the  same  unhappy 
vibrations  which,  in  the  hands  of  genius,  have  often 
preceded  the  exquisite,  rippling  delights  of  sound 
which  come  from  the  master^s  touch. 

As  the  family  sat  together,  it  was  only  now  and  then 
that  a  tuneful  air  came  to  their  ears,  yet  under  the 
open  sky  they  found  it  endurable  to  listen. 

There  was  some  emotion  in  Dorcas'  voice,  however, 
as  she  said:  "I  have  always  been  thankful  that  I  did 
not  possess  a  trained  ear  for  music." 

Doyt  looked  up  in  surprise,  "Why,  Aunt  Dorcas,  I 
think  that  is  a  most  desirable  thing  to  have.'' 

Dorcas  cooly  completed  the  sentence  by  saying: 
"The  torture  I  am  capable  of  enduring  from  disagree- 
able sounds  is  intense  enough  even  with  my  present 
state  of  cultivation." 


214  4/Sf  iWD  MADE  HER. 

Dr.  Harding  and  Dr.  Lowell  had  been  out  on  a  round 
of  duties  which  had  consumed  the  whole  day.  An 
hour  in  the  morning  had  been  spent  on  a  surgical 
operation  which  had  called  into  requisition  thorough 
anatomical  knowledge,  quick  judgment,  and  steady, 
unerring  nerve. 

They  had  been  reviewing  some  of  the  work  of  the 
dav.  The  doctor  was  walking  up  and  down  the  gravel 
path  and  as  the  twilight  began  to  settle  down  among 
the  trees,  he  turned  and  exclaimed  feelingly:  "You 
have  great  talent,  Lowell ;  you  would  succeed  in  your 
profession  anywhere.'^  And  then  he  added  gravely, 
'Terhaps  I  do  wrong  to  keep  you  here." 

In  the  feeling  which  Lowell  cherished  for  Dr.  Hard- 
ing was  mingled  a  comrade's  constancy,  a  brother's 
fidelity,  and  a  son's  reverence.  There  was  such  ser- 
iousness, such  intentness  in  the  tone  in  which  he  had 
just  spoken  to  him  that  it  sunk  into  his  very  soul;  it 
told  of  appreciation  as  well  as  trust.  He  felt  the  good 
that  was  in  the  man,  and  he  felt  the  impulse  to  wor- 
ship it. 

As  he  turned  his  face  full  toward  him,  the  touch  of 
his  footsteps  still  sounding  upon  the  gravel,  Lowell's 
bronzed  cheek  flushed,  and  struggling  against  a  thick 
utterance,  he  answered  him:  ''Dr.  Harding,"  he  said 
humbly,  "All  the  aspiration  I  ever  had  has  been  ful- 
filled. Through  your  kindness  I  have  already  risen  to 
the  heights  which  I  coveted." 

As  he  stood  there,  his  hand  lying  carelessly  on  the 
back  of  Doyt's  chair,  the  brown  hair  waving  about  the 
broad  brow,  the  fine  lines  of  the  student  face,  the 
grateful  eyes  were  pleasant  to  look  upon.  The  res- 
onant tones  of  his  voice  thrilled  through  the  little 
assembly  as  he  continued: 

"Granting  that  I  am  solicitous  of  distinction  in  the 
medical  world,  to  be  trusted  and  commended  by  such 
a  man  as  vou,  should  be  sufficient  to  gratify  any  am- 
bition." 


A    .'^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  215 

The  tears  sprang  to  Doyt's  eyes.  Lowell  laid  his 
hand  gently  upon  his  young  wife's  shoulder  and  con- 
tinued: 

"Doctor,  when  I  asked  you  to  give  Doyt  into  my 
care,  I  did  not  feel  that  I  possessed  a  single  qualifica- 
tion which  rendered  me  worthy  of  such  an  honor. 
For  my  reckless  daring  1  had  not  the  least  excuse  ex- 
cept my  love.  What  I  could  do  in  the  world  I  did  not 
know  myself;  and  when  I  realized  what  I  had  done,  I 
stood  before  you  in  despair  at  my  own  effrontry.  I 
thought  that  even  though,  through  Doyt's  love  for  me, 
you  might  favor  my  suit,  that  you  would  at  least  ex- 
pect me  to  have  first  established  myself.  In  a  moment 
you  solved  the  question  and  removed  from  my  path  the 
mountain  of  difficulty.  At  the  time  you  gave  me  Doyt 
I  was  unable  to  tell  you  what  I  felt — my  tongue  had 
not  the  power,  ^ow,  to  answer  you.  Doctor,''  he  con- 
tinued, looking  about  him,  up  at  the  house,  around  on 
the  blossoms,  up  at  the  noble  trees  which  stood  with 
leaflets  gently  quivering  in  the  gathering  darkness, 
and  lastly  around  upon  the  little  group  assembled 
near,  "I  can  never  forget  that  it  was  by  your  sacri- 
fice and  generosity  that  I  ever  entered  this  Eden  here. 
My  highest  pleasure,  honor,  happiness,  is  to  remain 
here  just  as  we  are  now,  and  if  I  have  been  so  trained 
and  taught  that  I  can  be  of  any  real  help  to  you  I 
am  only  proud  to  have  the  opportunity  to  prove  my 
gratitude.  I  find  in  my  association  with  you  such 
pleasure  and  happiness,"  he  continued  with  boyish 
energy,  '^that  unless  I  am  made  certain  that  you  weary 
of  my  presence  and  of  my  weak  assistance,  I  will  never, 
never  leave  you." 


2io  4.*Sf  GOD  MADE  BE  It. 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 

During  the  summer  that  followed  the  rest  and 
recreation  days  came  even  oftener.  They  hunted  out 
winding  streams  and  waterfalls,  there  were  visits  to 
foothills,  mountain,  and  shore,  brief  halts  at  the  old 
missions,  drives  through  the  sunny  afternoons  and 
rides  by  the  beautiful,  lustrous  moonlight  among  the 
shadows  of  the  Alameda.  Sometimes  they  took  the 
evening  meal  out  under  the  oak  tree,  the  soft  air  heavy 
with  the  fragrance  of  the    violet  and  the    heliotrope. 

Often  there  was  a  coni23any  out  from  the  town  and 
the  melody  of  stringed  instruments  gave  zest  to  the 
evenings.  In  every  way  it  seemed  they  gathered  in  the 
richness  and  the  comfort  and  the  joy  and  the  beauty 
and  the  glory  of  the  California  life. 

At  length  there  came  a  time  marked  in  the  record 
of  events  at  Oaklawn. 

It  was  a  quiet  placid  night.  The  dome  of  the  sky 
was  studied  with  palpitating  stars.  Owing  to  the  dis- 
quietude of  the  hearts  within,  however,  the  firmament 
seemed  darkened.  The  shadows  fell  across  the  green 
sward  and  the  whole  place  lay  in  an  uncertain  waver- 
ing light.  At  times  the  brightness  seemed  entirely 
shut  away  and  dark  clouds  floated  above,  hovering  only 
a  moment  however,  then  passing  outward  through  the 
clear  blue  field. 

But  the  constellations  which  decked  the  night  sky 
moved  far  to  the  westward  and  faded  slowly  from  the 
wide  firmament,  and  never  before  had  there  seemed  to 
dawn  upon  the  place  such  a  radiant  morning.  N'ever 
did  rising  sun  seem  to  emit  rays  of  such  vivid  splendor. 
Never  before  had  the  foliage  seemed  so  dewily  fresh  or 
the  flowers  so  resplendent.  To  the  people  there,  never 
had  bird  throats  poured  forth  such  glad  melody,  for 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  217 

the  day  was  the  date  of  a  new  birth,  a  sweet,  holy, 
sanctified  day  in  their  history. 

Upstairs  they  kept  their  treasure.  In  the  front 
room  over  the  balcony,  a  little  fresh-created  thing  lay 
in  sumptuous  magnificence,  tucked  away  in  a  dainty 
basket.  For  days  the  people  of  the  household  moved 
cautiously  about  out  of  pure  respect  for  his  arrival. 

The  beautiful  girl  mother,  whose  highest,  sweetest 
instincts  had  been  gratified,  was  even  more  beautiful 
than  ever.  The  face  was  more  sweetly  soulful,  the 
waving  locks  more  silken,  the  eyes  more  dreamily  blue. 
Filled  with  the  holy  joy  of  motherhood,  she  was  soothed 
into  a  solemnity  from  the  very  munificence  of  God's 
gift.  She  was  never  weary  of  studying  the  tiny  baby 
with  its  marvelous  mechanism,  the  flexibility  of  the 
diminutive  joints,  the  deliciously  "soft  little  hand,  the 
minuteness  of  its  workmanship,  the  exquisite  turn  of 
the  ear.  From  a  human  point  of  view  it  seemed  such 
a  frail  little  bark  in  which  to  trust  a  living  soul. 

Once  she  had  said  in  her  gracefully  sweet  way  and 
a  smile  on  her  rosy  lips:  "Lowell,  he  is  simply  perfect,^' 
and  Low^ell  had  answered  in  an  honest  glow  of  admira- 
tion: "Yes,  a  Dresden  without  a  flaw." 

Once,  too,  as  they  were  standing  by  the  little  ark 
that  held  him,  Jjowell  pressed  her  white  hand  to  his 
lips  in  manly  tenderness.  Looking  up  into  his  face 
placidly,  childishly  content,  she  declared  fervently:  "I 
never  was  so  happy  before.  Life  is  full  now.  There's 
not  a  single  void  left  to  be  filled.-' 

Whatever  speculation  there  had  been  in  the  baby 
mind  concerning  the  life  beyond  him,  during  the  three- 
quarters  of  a  year  that  he  had  remained  in  his  narrow, 
darkened  world,  and  whether  it  was  verified  by  fact  or 
not,  showed  not  a  sign  of  dissatisfaction  or  disap- 
pointment. He  grew^  and  thrived.  In  his  composi- 
tion, the  atmospheric  effect  of  mountain  and  forest 
and  sea,  could  be  easily  traced.  He  seemed  to  be  made 
up  of  sunlight  and  oxygen.  The  little  form  rounded, 
the  skin  cleared,  the  eyes  grew  liquid,  and  the  tiny 


218  Af^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

rriTisoles  hardened  from  constant  motion.  He  devel- 
oped a  startling  beauty;  he  crowed  and  smiled  away 
the  hearts  of  all  about  while  his  physiological  harmony 
remained  undisturbed. 

The  bits  of  ivory  even  began  to  appear  and  to  ar- 
range themselves  in  orderly  rows  in  his  pink  gums,  and 
still  in  his  jolly  equanimity,  he  seemed  to  say  to  them 
all:  "I  came  just  to  enjoy  life  and  to  help  the  rest  of 
you  to  enjoy  it.'^ 

Sometimes  he  had  made  revolt  against  the  method 
of  dressing  that  belonged  to  civilization. 

Tim,  having  by  this  time,  acquired  considerable  skill 
in  the  handling  of  the  bow,  and  ready  for  untiring 
service,  brought  down  his  violin.  Under  its  subtle 
spell  the  babe  lay  on  Doyt's  lap  like  a  delicate  piece  of 
statuary,  dimpled  in  shoulder  and  knee  and  cheek  and 
chin,  his  big  blue  eyes  by  turns  meditative,  question- 
ing, wistful,  and  eager.  And  when  grown  a  little 
stronger,  propped  among  pillows,  he  sat  up  looking  in 
grave  cogitation  on  the  objects  about  him.  He  seemed 
to  have  the  air  of  knowing  so  many  things  which  they 
knew  nothing  about  and  of  which,  alas,  owing  to  the 
limitations  of  infantile  memory,  he  should  never  be 
able  to  tell. 


A   i^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  2\i) 


CHAPTEE  XLVI. 

Tlie  vintage  time  had  come  again.  All  the  warm, 
sunny  day  the  cumbrous  wagons,  heavy  ladened  with 
the  ripe  fruit,  had  been  moving  slowly  down  the  roads 
that  led  to  the  wine  presses. 

In  the  drowsy  afternoon  they  took  the  baby  out 
under  the  oak  tree.  After  they  had  set  his  wicker  bed 
underneath  the  crooked,  gnarled  branches,  Doyt  and 
Dorcas  sat  down  to  await  the  return  of  the  others. 

Finches  and  larks  were  pouring  out  their  melody 
among  the  palm  tops;  bees  were  humming  among  the 
flowers,  yellow  butterflies  were  hovering  about;  the 
green  leaves  of  the  thrifty  young  trees  were  touched  to 
motion  by  the  sea-ladened  zephyrs. 

Doyt's  broad  white  hat  and  simple  fresh  gown  were 
worn  with  the  subtle  grace  always  natural  it  seemed  to 
her  alone,  while  Dorcas  held  the  child,  daintily  robed 
in  embroidery  and  lace.  Doyt  sat  opposite  to  her  ob- 
serving the  babe  with  keen  eyes,  zealously  noting  his 
multitudinous  graces,  studying  them  just  as  she  would 
study  the  charms  of  a  picture,  statuary,  gem,  or  un- 
folding rosebuds.  She  gave  thoughtful  attention  to 
the  beautiful  little  face  as  the  light  in  it  came  and 
went  and  the  dimples  deepened.  In  tender  homage 
she  followed  all  his  motions.  She  watched  the  great 
dewy  eyes  in  infantile  wonder  contemplate  the  grass 
and  the  swaying  leaves,  the  soft  blue  of  the  sky  or 
the  waving  tops  of  the  yellow  lillies  which  grew  near. 

AVith  her  elbow  on  the  back  of  her  seat,  her  head 
thrown  back  and  resting  on  her  hand,  her  face  was 
aglow  as  she  said: 

"This  is  a  most  entrancing  world!  I  never  realized 
how  beautiful  it  could  be,  until  the  baby  came.  It 
seems  so  strange,  Aunt  Dorcas^  that  while  such  a  little 


220  A^  ^<^J^  MADE  HER. 

time  ago  I  had  never  seen  him,  never  once  had  held  him 
in  my  arms,  that  now  he  wholly  absorbs  me.  Why, 
I  am  not  myself  at  all  when  he  is  out  of  my  sight/' 
she  continued  with  soulful  reverence.  'It  was  God  who 
made  the  instinct  of  motherhood  so  strong  within  me, 
and  it  is  God  who  has  satisfied  it."  She  was  slowly 
rolling  the  pebbles  under  her  foot,  and,  as  she  did  so, 
there  was  a  sudden  nervous  contraction  of  the  sweet 
face  as  she  proceeded  with  a  soft,  subdued  voice:  "1 
try  not  to  make  my  love  for  him  a  pain,  but,  Aunt 
Dorcas,  he  is  so  fair,  so  sweet,  so  pure,  there  is  such 
an  air  of  perfect  unworldliness  about  him  that,  al- 
though I  know  God  made  us  for  each  other,  sometimes 
I  tremble  and  feel  afraid." 

Here  the  little  one,  attracted,  perhaps,  by  the  change 
in  her  tone  of  voice,  turned  toward  her,  and,  catching 
her  eye,  he  bent  his  short  body  and  pulled  at  his 
toes  and  smiled.  Then  with  the  old,  faraway  look, 
fell  to'  watching  the  tree-tops  again. 

"I  shall  feel  more  comfortable.  Aunt  Dorcas,"  Doyt 
exclaimed  again  with  a  show  of  perturbation,  "when 
he  has  learned  how  to  talk,  for  then  I  shall  at  least 
know  something  of  what  he  is  thinking  about." 

Her  manner  of  speaking  was  so  at  variance  with  her 
usual  lightness  of  temperament,  that  Dorcas  looked  up 
in  some  surprise. 

"Of  course,  God  gave  him  to  us,"  she  answered,  "but 
we  must  not  allow  ourselves  to  become  so  apprehensive 
as  to  miss  all  the  other  happiness  he  has  brought  us." 
But  Doyt  persisted,  shaking  her  head:  "I  could  not 
live  away  from  him  now,  Aunt  Dorcas,"  she  said  with 
choking  voice,  "my  soul  would  starve."  She  clasped 
her  hands  over  her  bent  knee,  and  her  lips  grew  white. 
She  sat  silent  for  awhile,  then  she  said  again:  "God 
made  us  for  each  other;  I  am  sure,"  she  urged,  "that 
God  would  never  have  put  such  strong  feeling  within 
me  as  I  bear  for  my  child,  intending  it  to  be  wrenched 
and  twisted  and  broken.  Mary  Brown's  baby  died, 
and  disease  can  wantonly,  cruelly  separate  me  from 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORXIA   LIFE.  gf^l 

itiine,  but."  brightening  again,  "I  know  it  would  never 
Be  by  God's  design,"  she  said,  loyally.  "There  are  so 
liany  diseases  in  the  world,  I  can't  help  feeling  all 
tbe  time  a  sense  of  insecurity  that  makes  me  suffer. 
Things  are  not  the  way  God  planned  them,  at  all,"  she 
said,  excitedly.  "They  say  God  takes  children  out  of 
the  world  by  diphtheria.  People  think  that  God  takes 
pleasure  iii  seeing  the  little  things  suffer.  They  are 
tob  stupid  to  see  that  disease  is  only  the  product  of 
thfeir  own  ignorance  and  wrong  living.  Aunt  Dorcas," 
she  went  on  excited!}^,  "my  baby  'has  come  into  a  world 
where  disease  is  so  common  and  has  taken  on  so  many 
forms  that  the  inhabitants  here  have  become  a  menace 
to  each  other,  and  may  even  carry  pain  and  death  to 
their  dearest  friends.  Since  my  baby  came,"  she  mur- 
mured, "I  have  been  thinking  over  all  these  things, 
and  sitting  here  in  this  clear  air,  in  this  brilliant  flood 
of  sunshine  with  all  these  lovely  things  about  us,  with 
rny  beautiful  baby  perfectly  formed,  with  everything 
seemingly  arranged  for  complete  comfort  and  happi- 
ness, I  feel  that  T  hold  my  treasure  even  here  in- 
securely. I  knoAV  that  in  a  day,  even,  all  may  be 
changed." 

A  breeze  moved  fitfully  among  the  branches  and 
started  them  to  quicker  motion.  Doyt  was  standing, 
and  as  she  spoke  again,  she  moved  one  white  hand 
nervously  over  the  other. 

"Don't  think  me  morbid.  Aunt  Dorcas,"  she  pleaded. 
"I  haven't  been  thinking  in  vain,"  she  continued  with 
elastic  hopefulness.  "I  believe  that  this  intense  un- 
easiness that  I  have  in  regard  to  my  baby  is  given  me 
that  I  may  always  be  on  the  alert  to  save  him  from 
exposure  and  danger." 

While  Doyt  had  been  talking  in  the  midst  of  the 
warmth  and  the  fragrance  and  the  restful  sounds  and 
the  sweet  moving  breezes,  the  wondering  blue  eyes  had 
wearily  closed,  and  the  little  one  had  gone  to  sleep, 
cushioning  his  golden  head  on  Dorcas'  arm.  He  still 
lay  asleep  in  the  little  nest  where  Dorcas  had  laid  him 


322 


A^  GOD  MADE  HER. 


when  the  doctor  and  Lowell  returned.  They  bent  over 
him,  when  suddenly  the  eyes,  fresh  and  dewy,  un- 
folded and  became  fixed  and  rounded,  and  being  de- 
barred from  speech,  his  loving  heart  spoke  through 
the  smile  that  broke  over  his  fair  face. 

It  was  Lowell,  strong,  stalwart,  self-dependent 
Lowell,  who,  stepping  a  little  aside,  declared:  "It  is 
all  a  revelation  to  me.  I  would  never  have  believed 
that  such  a  wee,  rounded,  dimpled  thing  could  ever 
possess  such  power  to  communicate  happiness.  The 
fact  of  the  matter  is,  Doyt,  your  father  and  I  are 
neglecting  business  in  our  hurry  to  get  home  to  see 
him.  It's  even  worse  than  that,*  he  monopolizes  me," 
he  said  with  a  low  bow  toward  the  cradle,  and  a  smile 
that  was  full  of  mirth  and  tenderness.  "Why,  even 
the  Roentgen  ray  is  losing  its  power  of  attraction  since 
he  came." 

As  the  doctor  lifted  the  babe  from  his  cradle,  and 
placed  his  lips  against  the  soft  bit  of  exposed  neck,  he 
said :  "His  very  presence  is  a  balm." 

When  they  went  to  the  house.  Dr.  Harding  was 
carrying  the  little  one,  and  Dorcas  walked  by  his  side, 
while  Lowell  and  ]3oyt,  just  behind,  swung  between 
them  the  wicker  basket,  in  the  dainty  pillow  of  which 
was  still  left  the  print  of  the  baby  head. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  remaining  in  the  dining- 
room,  they  held  a  solemn  conference.  The  baby  still 
sat  in  his  high  chair  at  the  table,  beaming  and  rosy, 
now  end  then  banging  his  soft  palms  down  upon  the 
cloth.  Lowell,  though  he  had  intended  ail  the  time 
to  leav^  the  decision  to  Doyt,  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  \^ith  puzzled  face.  Dorcas  gave  in  a  list  of  names 
and  her  brother  went  over  a  number.  Estimating  the 
baby  at  his  real  value,  it  was  not  easy  to  find  the  name 
that  suit«^d  him.  Now,  with  knitted  brow  she  pon- 
dered over  the  different  suggestions.  Lowell  now  and 
then  stopped  and  took  out  pencil  and  paper.  The 
party  most  interested  banged  away  at  the  table  and 
was  reticent. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  223 

Do3^t  thought  that  the  baby  must  be  named  for  her 
father.  It  was  discovered  also  that  she  had  a  pre- 
disposition of  mind  in  favor  of  the  name  Gerald.  Each 
of  the  other  members  of  the  council  quietly  exerting 
an  influence  in  the  proper  direction,  a  decision  was 
soon  reached.  Before  they  separated  it  was  decided 
that  Lowell  and  Doyt  and  the  baby  should  on  the 
following  day  take  the  carriage,  and  driving  to  Grand- 
ma Williams'  house  bring  her  over  to  the  christening 
dinner,  and  a  short  time  later,  James  Gerald  Liv- 
ingston, cooing  and  crowing,  was  carried  upstairs  as 
a  preliminary  measure  to  being  put  to  bed. 

The  christening  time  came  and  went.  It  was  filled 
with  joy  and  pleasure.  Weeks  passed  in  one  round  of 
happiness.  Then  April  time  came,  the  season  for 
their  annual  outing.  They  had  arranged  to  spend  a 
month  at  the  seaside.  The  morning  had  arrived  on 
which  they  were  to  begin  their  journey.  They  had 
arisen  early  that  they  might  make  the  trip  leisurely.  In 
gay  spirits,  through  the  delicious  country  they  moved, 
between  well-trimmed  hedges,  through  orchards  redo- 
lent with  perfume,  past  pretty  cosy  homes,  embowered 
in  flower  gardens,  the  God  of  Peace  seemed  to  reign. 
They  ascended  the  slopes  of  San  Morena,  and  on  the 
summit,  in  the  heat  of  the  noon  hour,  they  lunched 
at  a  spot  from  whence  was  visible  a  sweep  of  the  valley 
from  Mt.  Hamilton  to  Diablo. 

In  the  calm  of  the  evening,  after  a  joyous  day  of 
sight  seeing,  they  arrived  again  at  the  sea — the  sea 
they  loved  so  well.  Far  out  on  the  waters  stately 
merchantmen,  with  canvass  spread,  with  trailing  black 
smoke  trailing  miles  behind  them,  were  on  their  long 
journey  to  the  Orient.  Immense  waves  broke  with 
thundering  sound  upon  the  beach,  and  as  they  came 
rushing  on  toward  the  carriage  Doyt,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  was  stricken  with  fear,  and  as  she  clasped 
her  sleeping  babe  to  her  breast  an  unexplained  fore- 
boding came  over  her  like  a  chill. 


324  ^S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

Soon  the  hotel  came  into  view,  and  the  familiar 
cottages  and  tents.  People  dressed  in  gay  colors  were 
wandering  up  and  down  the  beach,  and  elegant  car- 
riages drawn  by  prancing  horses  whirled  along  the 
hard,  smooth  sand  close  to  the  frothing  shore.  Dr. 
Harding  and  party  alighted  and  were  soon  comfort- 
ably domiciled  in  their  cottage. 

The  baby  awoke  and  gazed  about  him  in  wonder  at 
the  glowing  wood  fire  on  the  hearth,  at  the  swaying 
curtains,  at  the  flecking  shadows  upon  the  wall.  Xoth- 
ing  was  familiar  to  him  except  the  faces  about  him. 
He  did  not  cry,  but  wrinkled  up  his  brow  and  finally, 
after  puzzling  his  brain  cells  for  a  little  time,  settled 
down  in  the  placid  conviction  that  all  was  right. 

In  the  blaze  of  the  ruddy  firelight,  radiant  with 
health,  rosy  from  his  mountain  ride,  fresh  from  sleep, 
he  made  a  picture  almost  divine  in  its  ethereal  beauty. 

The  evening  meal  was  over,  the  chairs  were  arranged 
in  a  semi-circle  around  the  blazing  wood  fire.  There 
Dr.  Harding  sat  and  talked  with  those  he  loved.  In 
personal  appearance  he  was  tall,  straight,  almost 
stately.  Powerful  in  his  reserved  strength,  a  type  of 
manly  majesty,  eyes  full  of  luster,  and  great  masses 
of  iron  gray  hair  shading  a  full,  square  brow.  Doyt. 
as  was  her  custom,  sat  at  her  fathers  feet,  with  her 
elbows  on  his  knee  and  her  beautiful  classic  face 
raised  to  his. 

Through  the  window  they  watched  the  sun  sinking 
like  a  huge  ball  of  fire  in  the  waters  of  the  Pacific. 
Now,  as  they  looked,  somber  masses  of  clouds  slowly 
arose  in  heroic  outline.  Shifting,  they  assumed  fan- 
tastic shapes,  piling  up  into  lofty  peaks,  tumbling  and 
rolling  together,  masses  turning  into  golden  yellow 
glittering  with  bars  of  gold,  then  assuming  a  cardinal, 
and  fading  away  in  the  twilight  till  the  magic  scene  of 
God's  sunset  is  lost  in  the  swift,  incoming  ocean  fog. 

They  all  felt  the  fascination  of  the  scene,  saw  all 
the  sublime  glory  of  it,  appreciated  its  magnificence, 
justly  estimated  the  coloring,  the  massing,  the  delicate 


A  ST0R7  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  325 

tinting,  and  blending  of  soft  shades,  but  above  and 
beyond  all  they  recognized  the  Creative  love  and  care 
and  kindness.  Hemmed  around  by  the  sacred  quiet- 
ness, by  the  grandeur  and  immensity  of  the  eternal 
sea,  here  was  a  fitting  place  for  the  unreserved  expres- 
sion of  religious  feeling — more  fitting  than  temple, 
church  or  tabernacle.  Here  in  this  little  cottage 
parlor,  whose  windows  faced  the  sea,  without  ritualism, 
without  crosses  and  banners,  or  surpliced  acolytes,  in 
place  of  the  thundering  tones  of  a  great  organ,  came 
God's  praise,  eternally  hymned  by  the  soughing  of  the 
restless  waves — here  was  as  true  a  worship  as  ever  came 
from  church  or  convent. 

As  they  withdrew  their  gaze  from  the  ocean  sunset,- 
Dr.  Harding  said  feelingly:  "How  could  human 
imagination  picture  anything  more  gorgeous  for  the 
decoration  of  even  heaven  itself!  In  this  great,  glad, 
wide  world,  we  ought  to  live  to  enjoy  life  every  day. 
I  have  at  least  laid  hold  of  happiness  easily  within  my 
reach.  In  that  I  think  I  have  enjoyed  living  more 
than  most  men." 

Prompted  by  some  inner  impulse,  Dorcas  said: 
"James,  tell  me,  do  you  think  you  will  live  again?" 

"Shall  I  live  again?"  he  repeated  slowly,  "I  do  not 
know."  He  continued  calmly,  reasoning:  "If  I  do  not 
live  again,  death  separates  me  forever  from  those  I 
love.  I  only  know  that  the  G-od  who  made  me  has 
filled  my  soul  with  love  for  my  dear  ones  and  a  long- 
ing to  be  with  them.  I  know  that  my  love  for  even 
those  that  are  gone  lives  on,  perennially  green.  I  only 
know  that  for  every  instinct  the  Creator  has  im- 
planted within  me  "he  has  furnished  a  gratification. 
Always,  Dorcas,  since  Euth  and  I  parted,  I  have  be- 
lieved that  we  should  meet  again." 

"But  after  death,  what?"  his  sister  asked,  eager  to 
learn  his  thoughts. 

"I  do  not  know  what  will  become  of  me  after  death," 
he    answered.     Hesitating    a    moment    as    he    looked 
oui;  again  at  the  coloring  in  the  west,    his    fine    face 
15 


226  -^^  ^OD  MADE  HER. 

lighted  as  he  added  deliberately:  "From  the  care  the 
Creator  has  bestowed  upon  me  here,  I  feel  safe  to 
trust  him  for  what  is  to  come/'  Changing  the  tenor 
of  his  thoughts  he  said:  "The  rest  here  is  infinitely 
sweet  after  the  day's  journeying.  Doyt,  you  look, 
now,  as  you  did  on  your  mother's  bosom.  Life  to- 
night seems  full  and  happ}^,"  he  concluded,  as  they 
arose  to  retire.  , 

Do3^t  suddenly  stopped  and  grasped  convulsively 
Lowell's  arm;  she  stood  for  a  moment  speechless,  al- 
most devouring  his  face  with  her  earnest  eyes. 
"Listen!"  she  said,  as  pushing  nearer  to  him  he  put 
his  arm  tenderly  around  her.  "Listen,  Lowell,  to- 
night the  sea  seems  to  sob  and  wail.  Listen!"  and  her 
voice  fell  to  a  whisper,  "Do  you  not  hear  it  moan?" 

Her  young  heart  had  never  yet  kno^vn  a  sorrow. 
Pressing  about  her  they  all  chided  her  for  her  fears. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA     LIFE.  227 


CHAPTEE  XL VII. 

The  morning  was  crisp,  balmy  and  sparkling.  The 
sun  was  rising  and  gilding  with  fiery  red  the  undulat- 
ing Coast  'range.  The  Pacific  was  quiet  and  softly 
blue.  The  breakers  were  stealing  in  quietly  and 
throwing  noiselessly  a  stretch  of  white  froth  on  the 
sandy  beach.  While  3^et  the  air  held  the  sweet  morn- 
ing coolness  Dr.  Harding  and  Lowell  came  out  of  their 
cottage  equipped  for  a  boat  ride.  Looking  up  the 
stretch  they  saw  walking  toward  them  an  athletic 
young  fellow  in  whom  they  recognized  George  Moul- 
ton.  He  came  up  and  pleasantly  saluted  them  with 
his  inimitable  grace  of  manner  and  speech.  He  said; 
"I  met  Dorcas  in  the  city,  and  she  informed  me  of 
your  proposed  visit  here,  and  life  up  there  had  grown 
so  drearily  monotonous  that  I  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  to  join  you.'^  He  might  have  added  that  here 
the  sweetest  dream  of  his  life  had  been  conceived  and 
blasted. 

Just  then  Doyt  came  forth  as  fresh  as  the  morning. 
George  smiled  at  her  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  as  he 
chatted  with  her  and  her  companions,  thrills  of 
laughter  rang  out  on  the  salty  air.  She  said  to  him, 
"George,  you  must  have  kept  yourself  full  of  work, 
for  T  have  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  vou  these  many 
days.'' 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "Fve  been  busy  doing  things 
I  have  little  interest  in,  God  knows;  have  been  making 
money  as  the  world  goes,  but  what  use  have  I  for  gold? 
It  does  not  bring  happiness." 

A  tear  was  in  his  eye  and  a  choking  in  his  voice 
which  he  attempted  to  conceal  by  going  to  the  assist- 
ance of  Dr.  Harding,  who  was  trying  to  disentangle 
his  fishing  tackle. 


228  -^^  ^^^^  MADE  HER. 

Doj^t,  endeavoring  to  change  his  thoughts,  said: 
"The  social  world  counts  you  its  favorite — the  business 
world  envies  .you;  to  both  vou  are  eligible  and  accept- 
able/' 

When  George  learned  the  arrangement  of  the 
morning,  he  said:  "The  fishing  to-day  will  be  fine;  I 
would  like  to  join  you,  if  you  will  permit  me,''  ad- 
dressing Dr.  Harding  and  Lowell,  "'and  I  will  pull  the 
boat  while  you  draw  in  the  finny  tribe."' 

Doyt,  in  clinging  white  morning  dress,  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  porch,  holding  Gerald  in  her  arms.  She 
was  a  picture  of  unsurpassed  purity  and  loveliness. 
The  baby's  hair  was  golden,  like  Doyt's.  When  the 
party  was  ready,  Lowell  sprang  up  the  steps,  caught 
them  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  the  moist 
lips  of  each.  As  he  stepped  into  the  boat  he  paused 
again,  and  with  an  "au  revoir"  raised  his  hat  in  a  gal- 
lant good-bye.  As  he  stood  in  the  skiff,  preparatory 
to  moving  seaward,  Doyt  said  to  herself,  "How  strong, 
how  stalwart,  how  self-dependent!" 

At  this  moment  Dorcas  appeared,  bearing  her 
brother's  great  coat,  with  the  remark,  "You  will  be 
chilly,  as  you  will  have  no  opportunity  for  exercise 
with  these  two  muscular  young  fellows  at  the  oars." 

The  doctor  at  first  remonstrated,  but  by  persuasion 
was  finally  induced  to  accept  the  additional  coat.  The 
three  were  seated  in  the  boat,  and  were  soon  scudding 
away  through  the  surf.  As  they  advanced,  the  power- 
ful waves  struck  heavily  against  the  bow  and  veered 
it  from  its  course  seaward,  but  by  the  aid  of  strong 
arms  it  was  readily  righted.  Doyt  and  Dorcas  waited 
with  anxiety  until  they  saw  that  the  boat  had  reached 
the  smooth  waters,  and,  returning  'to  the  porch,  still 
watched  it,  as  it  drifted  gently  along  in  the  gorgeous 
sunlight. 

The  morning  wore  away.  The  cottage  was  bright- 
ened with  a  grate  fire  of  pine  cones.  The  table  was 
set  for  lunch.  Do3^t  had  drawn  up  the  old  armchair, 
and  sat  rocking  her  baby.     Her  red  lips  were  parted, 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  229 

and  as  she  swayed  back  and  forth,  she  crooned  a 
Inllaby. 

A  man's  form  shaded  the  light.  A  messenger  ap- 
peared at  the  threshold;  his  face  was  white  and  startled. 
He  spoke  quickly  and  without  warning,  and  his  voice 
came  in  nervons  jerks. 

"The  two  have  gone  down,"  he  gasped. 

She  listened  with  all  the  strength  of  her  being. 
Doyt  drew  herself  slowly  up  from  the  chair.  As 
Dorcas  entered  the  room,  he  took  a  step  toward  her. 

''Oh,  Miss  Harding,''  he  said,  ''the  two  men  have 
gone  down — one  is  making  his  way  ashore.'^ 

Doyt  stood  as  though  transfixed' — face  white,  lips 
mute.  Dorcas  took  the  sleeping  babe  and  laid  it  in  on 
the  bed.  The  young  mother  knew  vaguely  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  She  heard  what  the  man  had 
said — knew  the  words,  but  could  not  comprehend. 

The  rounded,  dimpled  face  blanched  to  snowy  wdiite- 
ness,  as  stricken  with  syncope.  She  felt  the  muscles 
tighten  about  the  chest,  a  pain  shot  through  her  head 
as  though  it  were  clamped  by  bands  of  steel.  Her  life 
had  always  been  peaceful;  it  was  an  utterly  impossible 
thing  that  danger  should  come  into  it  now.  All  the 
strength  of  her  being  rose  in  ungovernable  rebellion 
against  it.  Her  muscles  grew  hard  and  rigid,  and  hot 
words  of  contradiction  fell  passionately  from  her  lips. 
Though  her  father,  since  her  recollection,  had  never 
been  ill,  yet  the  fear  of  some  day  losing  him  had  always 
been  before  her.  Her  devotion  to  him  had  always 
been  as  deep  and  her  affection  as  true  as  though  she 
knew  each  day  would  be  his  last.  Now  the  stroke  had 
fallen,  not  wdien  she  had  become  prepared  for  it,  but 
with  the  suddenness  of  the  lightning  blast.  So  far, 
her  mind,  with  slow  effort,  had  comprehended  only  that 
her  father  was  in  danger;  she  never  dreamed  but  that 
Lowell  could  reach  the  shore  in  safety. 

Stunned,  the  two  women  staggered  to  the  porch, 
and  there,  far  out  at  sea,  they  saw,  at  intervals,  the 


230  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

upturned  boat  with  a  single  form  clinging  to  it.     Two 
boats  were  making  toward  the  wrecked  skiff.     Pres-^ 
ently    the    boats    reached    the    drowning    man;  the}' 
cautiously  rescued  him  and  pulled  for  the  shore. 

This  w^as  the  story  the  fishermen  told:  They  had 
seen  the  boat  with  the  three  men — saw  them  fishing  for 
an  hour  or  more.  Looking  toward  them,  they  saw  one 
of  the  men  standing  in  the  boat.  In  an  instant  it 
was  careened  and  the  three  w^ere  in  the  water. 
One  of  the  men  (George  it  proved  to  be),  never  lost 
his  hold  on  the  boat,  and  in  an  instant  the  current 
had  carried  the  skiff  far  out  of  reach  of  the  submerged 
men.  When  they  arose  they  were  seen  making  power- 
ful strokes,  side  by  side,  breasting  the  waves,  but  after 
a  time  they  suddenly  sank  together.  Pulling  toward 
them  with  all  their  strength,  they  saw  them  come  up 
again;  they  once  more  advance,  side  by  side;  they 
sink  the  second  time,  then  rise  again  together.  Once 
more  the  strong  muscles  of  the  fishermen  were  strained 
in  a  powerful  struggle.  As  their  boat  came  nearer, 
they  saw  the  young  man  beating  his  way,  clinging  to 
the  other,  and  striking  savagely  at  the  waves.  There 
was  the  clear  brain,  the  athletic  arm,  the  tense 
muscle,  the  brave  heart,  but  the  task  before  them  was 
too  great.  If  George  could  have  brought  the  boat 
around  they  might  have  won.  When  the  fishermen 
had  come  within  twenty  yards  of  the  struggling 
swimmers,  they  sank  together  and  were  seen  no  more. 

The  two  women  ran  down  to  the  shore.  They  saw 
t]ie  fishermen  and  George,  and  the  empty  boat  towed 
])ehind.  They  knew  that  the  brave  sailors  had  done 
their  best  to  save  them;  they  knew  that  they  had 
cruised  about  the  spot  w^here  they  had  been  last  F-.ecn. 
And  oh!  they  knew  that  they  had  come  away  and  given 
up  the  search. 

T!iey  were  faced  by  the  stern,  pitiless  fact  that  those 
men  had  turned  their  boats  ashore. 

There  was  a  hurrying  along  the  beach.  Wild  cries 
rent  the  air  and  boats  are  made  ready  and  pushed  off 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  231 

seaward.  Doyt  heard  the  splash  of  the  oars  as  they 
cut  their  way  through  the  surf.  Now  and  then  her 
girlish  voice  rang  out  in  wild  despair.  Now  and  then 
she  pathetically  called  out  their  names  and  piteously 
pleaded  with  them  to  come  back.  Seaward  there  were 
only  to  be  seen  merry,  dancing  ripples.  The  ocean  lay 
as  peacefully  as  though  there  were  never  such  things 
as  wild  waves  and  rough  billows,  desolated  homes  and 
breaking  hearts.  All  the  afternoon  men  with  strained 
eyes  were  diligently  walking  up  and  down  the  beach. 
Tim  lay  stretched  upon  the  sand  and  sobbing  hysteri- 
cally as  though  his  heart  would  break. 

The  hours  rolled  on  while  they  waited  in  intolerable 
agony,  and  as  the  sun  went  down  the  tide  came  rolling 
in,  and  on  a  monster  wave  the  bodies  were  thrown  out 
of  the  sea  upon  the  sandy  beach.  The  ocean  had  given 
up  its  dead.  As  the  two  bodies  were  caught  up  and 
caressed  by  the  women  there  was  weeping  from  many 
a  sympathetic  stranger. 

There  was  no  time  now  to  give  way  to  overwhelming 
grief:  there  were  matters  that  must  be  attended  to. 

Forgetting  for  a  moment  her  double  loss,  Doyt  was 
going  to  Lowell  for  council,  then  again  she  was  about 
to  turn  to  her  father.  Her  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  She 
now  began  to  realize  her  utter  desolation.  After  a 
long  and  dreary  night,  suffering  an  indescribable  agony, 
the  morning  came.  They  started  on  their  sad  journey 
homeward.  The  dreadful  intensity  of  her  loss  now 
came  over  her.  Her  father!  His  gTeat,  true  heart 
stilled  forever!  Never  again  was  she  to  hear  his  kindly 
voice,  and  the  frank,  boyish  laugh  of  Lowell. 

The  birds  sang  merrily  in  the  tree-tops.  They 
wound  gently  down  the  slopes  and  quietly  over  the 
rough  places  lest  they  might  disturb  the  dead.  And 
all  the  way  along  Doyt  was  saying:  "How  can  it  be. 
Aunt  Dorcas!     How  can  it  be!'^ 

Dorcas,  from,  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to  her  orphaned 
niece,  strove  at  self-control.     She  knew  that  one  of  the 


332  ^^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

\ery  last  thoughts  of  her  brother  must  have  been  con- 
Mence  in  her  loyalty  to  Doyt  and  her  child. 

Sometimes,  the  young  mother  sat  in  a  stupor,  gazing 
absently  around.  Again  leaning-  her  head  on  Dorcas' 
shoulder,  she  would  give  way  to  passionate  grief. 

Doyt's  happiness  and  peace  infinitely  dear  to  her,  she 
was  determined  to  be  calm  and  to  give  all  her  strength 
to  enable  Doyt  to  bear  the  strain. 

Doyt  said  pathetically:  "Lowell  and  I  started  out  to 
go  hand  in  hand  all  the  way.     He  was  to  be  by  my  side 
till  we  both  were  old,  and  now  just  at  the  beginning, 
my  baby  and  I  are  left  alone." 
*  «  *  *  *  *  * 

When  they  reached  Oaklawn  a  heavy  fog  was  float- 
ing in  and  turning  all  its  charming  color  to  ashen  gray. 
The  majestic  trees  were  dripping  with  dampness;  the 
gables  of  the  house  were  only  dimly  outlined;  the 
forms  of  the  old  oaks  loomed  up  like  specters  before 
them.  On  either  side  were  the  carefully  tended  flow- 
ers, the  roses  blooming  that  he  had  planted,  the  trees 
that  he  had  nursed  bending  with  the  fruitage. 

The  neighbors  had  gathered  at  the  entrance  of  the 
avenue;  they  parted  as  the  carriage  came  up  and  with 
heads  uncovered,  bowed  in  sympathetic  grief  as  the 
mournful  procession  passed  in.  Doyt  was  deeply 
touched  at  this  mute  expression  of  their  fervent  love 
for  her  father  and  Lowell. 

Dorcas  and  Doyt  spent  the  night  in  adjoining  rooms. 
Excepting  the  rain  that  came  fitfully  spattering  upon 
the  roof,  everything  was  gloomily  silent.  In  broken- 
hearted sobs  they  watched  the  hours  go  by. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  233 


CHAPTEE  XLVIII. 

Late  the  next  morning  Deacon  Johnson  called  and 
in  a  respectful  way  expressed  his  sympathy. 

Before  he  left  the  house,  he  said  casually:  "Mrs.  Liv- 
ingston, I  suppose  you  would  like  for  me  to  request 
Brother  Ware  to  officiate  at  the  funeral  ceremony?'' 

Doyt  gazed  searchingly  into  the  well-lined  face  op- 
posite her,  then  answered: 

"Mr.  Ware  was  never  on  any  terms  of  intimacy  with 
them.  Let  someone  speak  for  my  father  who"  knew 
him.'' 

The  deacon  studied  a  moment,  then  responded  cau- 
tiously: 

"With  what  minister  of  the  Gospel  has  he  been  fa- 
miliar, may  I  ask?" 

''With  none,  Deacon  Johnson." 

''Yes,  I  know  he  has  never  identified  himself  with 
religious  people,  still  as  long  as  the  church  is  willing 
to  make  concessions,  I  should  think  you  would  natur- 
ally like  to  give  him  a  Christian  burial." 

The  young  woman's  heart  beat  violently.  As  she 
did  not  speak  instantly,  the' deacon  hazarded  another 
sentence.     Shifting  about  in  the  chair  he  continued: 

"You  surely,  in  your  great  bereavement,  want  some- 
body to  give  you  some  religious  consolation— to  offer 
you  some  hope." 

^  Doyt  rose  quickly  to  her  feet  and,  though  highly  in- 
dignant, she  spoke  measuredly: 

"Deacon  Johnson,"  she  said,  "if  I  thought  Mr.  Ware 
could  pierce  the  Beyond"— the  great  tears  welled  up, 
but  she  controlled  her  feelings— "if  I  thought  he  could 
tell  me  anything  of  them,  bring  me  any  message  from 
them,  I  would  go  down  on  my  knees  and  beg  of  him 


234  i**^'  ^^^^  MADE  HER. 

to  speak.  I  do  not  see  how  Mr.  Ware  has  any  means 
of  knowing  that  any  more  than  I." 

She  looked  sadly  out  of  the  window. 

"We  do  not  know  what  is  to  come  after  death.  Not 
a  whisper  has  ever  crossed  the  boundary  that  separates 
us  from  our  dead.  What  is  proven,  what  is  true — at 
my  father's  grave  I  want  that  said' — no  more." 

"Of  course  it  is  with  you  to  say.  As  youx  father  did 
not  live  a  Christian,  we  thought  you  might  feel  that 
the  church's  prayers  might  be  of  benefit.'' 

In  a  single  moment  eveiy  muscle  of  the  girl's  frame 
was  tense. 

"Mr.  Ware  thinks  that  the  Great  Spirit  takes  pleas- 
ure in  meeting  out  punishment  to  His  own  children, 
whom  in  all  love  He  has  created.  I  am  bruised,  heart- 
broken, by  the  cruel  separation,  still  the  kind  God  has 
not  withdrami  His  love  or  his  Providential  care  over 
me.  Deacon  Johnson,  I  think  I  should  scream  out  in 
the  midst  of  the  service  if  he  should  assert  that  God 
did  this.  No!  No!"  she  said,  "I  do  not  want  Mr.  Ware 
to  speak  here." 

She  gazed  upon  the  caskets,  then  murmured: 

"The  two  sleep  sweetly. — I  would  rather  there  would 
be  no  jar  here.  Come  outside,"  she  said,  and  she  led 
the  way  toward  the  veranda. 

One  look  of  devotion  toward  her  father's  peaceful 
face  as  she  passed  from  the  room,  and  she  spoke: 

"He  lived  honorably,  upright  and  true,  was  charita- 
ble to  all,  had  courageous  manliness,  unswerving  fidel- 
ity to  the  sick  and  poor,  loving  God  the  Father;  if  such 
as  he  be  not  saved,  the  world  is  lost." 

Death^that  beautiful  life  that  had  gone  out,  where 
was  it  now?  That  strange  sleep,  when  even  his 
daughter's  woe  disturbed  him  not.  She  now  recalled 
the  strange  things  she  had  heard  him  say.  How  death 
is  gentle — at  the  last,  his  dying  patients  made  little 
or  no  resistance.  Most  of  them  did  not  seem  to  want 
Heaven  so  much  as  they  wanted  rest.  She  recalled  the 
high  and  holy  influence  he  had  had  over  her.     How  her 


A    .STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  935 

whole  life,  as  she  looked  back  over  it,  seemed  a  sacred 
pilgrimage. 

''I  shall  call  my  life  happy,  having  once  had  such  a 
father/'  she  mused.  She  thought  of  how  he  had 
taught  her  to  find  a  loving  God  in  the  bursting  of  a 
bud,  in  the  beating  of  the  heart,  in  the  fragrance  of 
the  flower,  in  the  swelling  of  the  wave.  In  her  great 
love  for  him,  she  murmured: 

"I  do  not  speak  sacreligiously.  I  who  knew  his 
great,  tender  heart  and  his  masterful  intellect.  I 
think  God  ought  to  be  proud  that  he  ever  made  such 
a  man.  Once  last  night,  Dorcas,  when  I  could  not 
sleep,  and  my  heart  hunger  was  strong,  father  seemed 
to  come  to  me:  I  felt  him  hold  me  close,  I  did  not  move 
in  the  slightest,  did  not  breathe  lest  I  should  miss  the 
bliss  of  his  presence — he  seemed  to  tell  me,  Dorcas, 
that  we  never  could  be  separated,  that  love  bound  us 
together  still.  Though  there  came  no  sound  my  soul 
seemed  to  vibrate  to  the  words  he  seemed  to  speak. 
He  went  away  but  left  me  in  peace." 

The  recollection  of  the  hours  of  desolation  succeed- 
ing the  funeral  of  her  loved  ones  always  remained  very 
dim  in  Doyt^s  mind.  She  could  only  recall  a  few  of 
the  events  of  that  period. 

For  the  first  time  the  strength  of  her  limbs  gave  way 
and  she  lay  helpless  and  prostrated.  Dorcas  stayed  in 
the  room  with  her  and  took  care  of  the  baby.  On  the 
fourth  day  her  overstrained  nerves  became  utterly  ex- 
hausted and  she  gave  herself  up  to  paroxsyms  of  grief. 
She  found  herself  always  listening  for  their  footsteps 
or  longing  for  their  voices  or  their  soothing  and  affec- 
tionate caresses.  When  she  realized  the  full  meaning 
of  it  all  she  sank  into  an  utter  state  of  dejection.  This 
melancholy  condition  might  have  continued  indefinite- 
ly had  not  her  baby,  which  was  now  more  dear  to  her 
than  ever,  become  ill.  The  shock  to  the  mother  in 
her  dual  calamity,  had  told  in  the  health  of  the  child 
in  its  defective  nutrition. 


236  ^*^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

Doyt  began  to  realize  that  heavy  as  the  blow  had 
been  she  had  not  lost  all.  She  thought  with  keen  self- 
reproach  how  her  father  and  Lowell  had  idolized  the 
little  one,  and  she,  in  her  selfish  sorroAv,  had  neglected 
her  babe's  physical  wants. 

She  must  not  let  the  gloom  of  her  own  life  darken 
his,  and  with  her  perfect  physical  health,  she  made 
successful  effort  to  regain  her  self  control. 

When  she  began  to  go  out  she  was  greeted  every- 
where so  tenderly  that  her  mind  became  calmer.  She 
did  not  receive  the  homage  as  personal,  but  rather  as 
a  tribute  to  those  who  had  gone,  yet  the  sympathy  of 
her  father's  people  was  soothing  and  comforting. 

After  a  few  days  indisposition  Gerald  recovered. 
Some  months  pass  by  and  we  find  him  toddling  every- 
where. The  neurasthenia  of  the  mother  had  passed 
away  and  vitality  and  health  shone  in  every  feature. 

One  evening  George  came  down  from  the  city,  as 
was  his  custom  at  frequent  intervals.  His  general  de- 
meanor was  unchanged.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  avoid 
all  mention  of  Dr.  Harding  and  his  cousin,  or  of  their 
manner  of  death.  He  deftly  turned  the  conversation 
every  time  mention  was  made,  and  from  his  lips  they 
never  could  obtain  any  detailed  account  of  the  tragedy. 

While  Dorcas  and  Doyt  had  given  him  an  outward 
welcome,  they  both,  though  they  never  expressed  it, 
felt  that  in  some  mysterious  way,  George  had  been  the 
direct  or  remote  cause  of  the  death  of  Lowell  and  Dr. 
Harding. 

Dorcas  reasoned  that  his  idolatrous  love  for  Doyt 
may  have  prompted  him  to  find  a  way  of  securing  her, 
even  though  he  had  to  accomplish  his-  purpose  by 
treachery  and  murder. 

On  the  evening  in  question  Doyt  and  Dorcas  were 
seated  on  the  veranda  some  distance  apart  and  Gerald 
was  engaged  in  running  to  and  fro  from  one  to  the 
other.  His  round,  pink  limbs,  his  cherub  face  and 
curly  hair,  and  large  blue  eyes  full  of  gentleness  and 
intelligence    made    a    moving    picture    of    unequaled 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  237 

beauty.  Doyt's  eyes  followed  him  with  a  look  almost 
idolatrous,  while  her  face  wore  again  an  expression  of 
sweet  content. 

George  greeted  them  with  courtly  but  cordial  man- 
ners, and  whatever  the  two  ladies  thought  of  his  sinis- 
ter motives,  his  ever  polite  and  courteous  demeanor 
could  not  but  win  their  admiration. 

In  his  presence  they  even  forgot  the  evil  they  at- 
tributed to  him  in  his  absent  moments. 

Dorcas  soon  withdrew  with  Gerald  and  left  Doyt  and 
George  alone. 

"Doyt,  you  seem  almost  your  old  happy  self  again 
to-night,''  George  remarked.  He  continued  with  a  hes- 
itating emotion,  "Doyt,  you  remember  once  I  told  you 
that  I  loved  you.  I  have  not  forgotten,  I  never 
change." 

Again  the  old  fear  came  over  her.  He  was  so  sav- 
agely in  earnest. 

"The  attraction  of  the  whole  outside  world  is  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  attraction  here.  It  was  my 
fate  to  love  you.  I  was  content  before  that — never 
since.  It  is  a  feeling  over  which  I  have  no  control.  It 
will  go  with  me  to  the  end  of  my  life." 

She  looked  up  startled,  "Yes,"  she  said. 

"The  fact,  serious  as  it  was,  seemed  to  be  of  little 
significance  to  you  at  the  time." 

"I  felt  the  earnestness  of  what  you  said,  George." 

"And  when  I  was  set  aside,"  he  said  with  bitterness, 
"I  hid  my  disappointment.  You  never  knew  what  I 
endured' — suffered." 

"Perhaps  not,  still  I  was  very  sorry." 

"It  has  not  been  easy  for  me  to  forget.  Time  has 
not  dulled  nor  blunted  my  feeling  for  you.  I  love  you 
still,  Doyt,  and  I  cannot  resist  seeking  again  my  happi- 
ness. I  ask  you  to  give  me  some  word  of  hope  that 
by  and  by  when  you  have  recovered  somewhat  from 
this  great  blow,  when  you  are  convinced  of  the  sincerity 
of  my  devotion,  you  will  listen  to  my  pleading." 


238  ^*^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

Then  with  a  troubled  look  on  her  sweet  face,  as  witb 
an  effort  she  answered.  He  was  standing  only  a  few 
feet  distant,  and  with  piteous  gesture  she  motioned 
him  away.     She  looked  up  to  him  pleadingly: 

"I  know  you  are  strong  and  gifted  and  true — I  know 
it  all,  George.  I  feel  how  you  honor  me,  but  George, 
I  could  never — I  am  sorry  you  force  me  to  tell  you— I 
could  never,  never  think  of  promising  to  be  your  wife. 
There  are  many  objections  out  of  which  you  could 
never  reason  me.  Besides,  I  have  one  thing  to  live  for, 
and  that  is  to  conscientiously  rear  and  educate  my  boy, 
and  I  can  allow  nothing  to  come  between  us." 

Seeing  the  futility  of  further  pleading,  he  reproach- 
fully said: 

"You  know,  Doyt,  what  a  life  of  misery  lies  before 
me,  yet  without  a  moment's  hesitation  you  relegate  me 
to  my  fate.''  Then  for  a  moment  forgetting  himself, 
he  said  with  a  hissing  through  his  teeth:  'T  sold  my 
soul  for  you;  the  only  thing  that  weighed  with  me  was 
to  possess  you.  When  you  were  living  with  Lowell, 
happy,  content,  did  you  think  for  a  moment  that  I  had 
forgotten  you?  A  despairing  man  is  not  accountable 
for  what  he  does,  Doyt." 

As  he  took  her  hand  in  adieu,  he  politely  said: 

"I  cannot,  I  shall  not,  accept  this  as  final,  Doyt — I 
shall  see  you  again." 

As  George  passed  out  into  the  night  down  the  avenue 
that  led  to  the  highway,  a  nervous  tremor,  as  of  an 
ague  chill,  thrilled  her  frame,  as  a  foreboding  of  some 
impending  calamity.  What  it  was  and  why  such 
thoughts  penetrated  her  mind,  she  could  not  tell. 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  239 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  front  door  of  the  house  stood  open,  so  also  did 
man}^  of  the  windows. 

Doyt  reverently  covered  the  baby  with  a  down  cov- 
erlet and  pressing  her  lips  against  the  moist  cheek, 
followed  Dorcas  downstairs  and  soon  afterward  into 
the  yard. 

The  afternoon  was  charming.  The  sun's  rays  were 
gilding  the  topmost  branches  of  the  tall  eucalyptus, 
and  in  all  nature  there  was  no  hint  of  sorrow  or  misery. 

With  undisturbed  mind  Doyt  sat  on  a  rustic  bench 
and  talked  with  Dorcas. 

A  few  minutes  later,  having  made  ready  for  a  visit 
previously  planned,  Doyt  returned  to  the  house.  Ger- 
ald had  grown  to  be  quite  methodical  in  his  habits  and 
when  his  siesta  had  lasted  the  required  time,  the 
mother  passed  into  his  chamber  with  the  happy  antic- 
ipation of  seeing  her  baby's  blue  eyes  opening  with 
their  smile  of  welcome. 

When  she  drew  near  the  white  cot  where  she  had 
left  him  she  saw  that  her  child  was  gone!  She  drew 
back  startled,  for  none  of  the  people  about  the  place 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  him  up  from  his  sleep 
except  herself  and  Dorcas.  She  instantly  sought  Dor- 
cas and  together  they  hunted  all  through  the  house 
with  irrepressible  anxiety. 

The  servants  were  questioned  and  while  the  fear  was 
growing  within  her,  she  was  resolving,  in  order  that 
she  might  better  prosecute  the  search,  that  she  would 
not  be  disturbed  by  his  sudden  disappearance. 

The  child  was  taken  by  some  friend  and  would  soon 
be  returned.  Coming  suddenly  on  Dorcas,  whose  dis- 
tressed face  brought  to  her  the  stern  fact  that  her  child 
had  been  stolen.     She  grew  faint,  her  head  began  to 


240  ^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

reel,  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  recovered  and  said: 

"Someone  has  hidden  him  and  he  will  be  brought 
to  me  soon  again." 

There  was  no  time  to  give  way  to  helpless  despair. 
Something  must  be  done,  and  that  quickly. 

The  abductor,  whoever  he  might  be,  friend  or  enemy, 
must  be  outwitted. 

While  the  home-place  was  being  scoured,  men  were 
sent  off  on  wheels  and  on  horseback.  The  station  was 
•to  be  watched.  The  telephone  was  used  and  the  news 
of  the  stolen  child  was  telegraphed  to  the  city  papers. 
A  reward  was  offered.  A  messenger  was  sent  to 
George  and  an  early  train  brought  him  to  Oaklawn. 
On  his  arrival  he  took  hold  of  the  case  with  soulful 
interest. 

His  subtle  brain  originated  a  systematic  plan  for 
the  prosecution  of  the  search,  which  to  the  two  stricken 
women  seemed  could  only  result  in  an  early  discovery 
of  the  child. 

These  plans  he  at  once  pushed  with  great  energy. 
Nobody  slept  that  night.  Doyt  of  all  was  most  active. 
She  listened  with  strained  ears  for  the  sound  of  the 
door-bell.  Every  moment  she  expected  it  to  announce 
the  tidings  of  the  recovery  of  her  lost  child.  Day 
dawned  and  the  blessed  assurance  Jor  which  she  had 
vigilantlv  listened,  never  came. 

The  morning  papers,  with  great  head  lines,  told  of 
her  loss.  Already  thousands  aye,  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands were  reading  the  startling  news. 

"STOLEN— STOLEN. 

"  ^1,000  reward  will  be  paid  for  the  return  of  Gerald, 
infant  son  of  Mrs.  Doyt  Livingston  and  the  late  Dr. 
Livingston^  who  was  stolen  yesterday  afternoon  from 
Oaklawn^  near  San  Jose,  hy  party  or  parties  wnknownJ^ 


A  STORY  OF  CALUORXIA  LIFE.  ,241 

Messages  of  sympathy  po\>red  in  from  everywhere, 
far  and  wide,  from  j\[aine  to  California,  from  Canada 
to  Mexico.  Nothing  tonches  the  heart  of  a  people 
like  a  lost  child.  It  makes  nniversal  kinship  of  the 
world. 

An  indefatigalole  search  continued  day  after  day; 
then  week  followed  week,  then  a  month' — two,  three, 
fonr,  five — and  still  no  clue  to  the  abduction  of  the 
little  one.  What  sleepless  nights,  what  agony,  what 
muttering  despair.  "What  horror,  when  Doyt  began  to 
realize  that  if  living,  he  had  grown  so  she  could  not 
now  rec^ognize  him,  even  though  she  found  him. 
There  was  a  little  face,  rounded  and  beautiful — the 
outline  of  a  baby  face — which  was  indelibly  impressed 
on  her  mind.  It  was  that  face  which  inspired  her  to 
superhuman  etfort. 

"Asleep  or  awake,"  she  said,  I  always  see  a  little  boy 
with  golden  curls.  Does  he  miss  me?  When  I  had 
him  I  had  a  look  into  Heaven,  but  now  the  gates  are 
closed  again.  J\lv  everv  longing^  and  instinct  was  sat- 
isfied.'' 

Whenever  her  eyes  fell  upon  his  little  shoes  or  a  bit 
of  his  clothing  or  a  toy,  she  was  blinded  Avith  tears. 

"I  was  so  happy  once  with  my  father,  Lowell  and 
little  Gerald — all  gone!     What  a  starveling  am  I  now!'' 

She  would  sit  by  the  hour  in  the  silent  solitary  lone- 
liness of  her  desolated  home.  Her  face  became  pallid 
and  wan,  for  grief  will  kill  as  Avell  as  phthisis  or  car- 
cinoma. She  had  sought  her  child  everywhere  without 
avail.  In  the  asylums,  on  the  streets,  at  the  farm 
house,  in  the  alleys  and  byways  of  all  our  cities,  in  the 
parks,  in  the  mountain  cabin,  but  all  her  efforts  were 
fruitless. 

"Aunt  Dorcas,"  she  would  cry  in  her  frenzy,  "what 
have  I  done  to  anyone  that  they  should  steal  my  baby? 
Someone  must  have  done  it  who  knew  of  my  weak- 
ness-— who  knew  how  I  could  suffer!  I  should  have 
him;  I  am  the  one  to  care  for  him,  I  am  his  mother — 
God  gave  him  to  me,  God  never  took  him  awav.  He 
16 


242  -^'Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

wants  me — Oh,  cruel  loss!  Every  time  the  voice  of  a 
child  strikes  on  my  ears  I  think  of  Gerald.  What 
overpowering,  crushing  sense  of  misery!  What  number- 
less disappointments — a  martyrdom  without  an  end! 
If  my  father  and  Lowell  had  been  here  I  know  they 
would  have  found  him  and  returned  him  to  my  arms." 

Was  it  possible?  Dorcas  and  she  often  thought  that 
George  had  taken  the  child.  In  some  mysterious  way 
George  had  always  been  connected  in  their  minds  with 
every  calamity  that  had  befallen  them.  On  their 
cloudless  heaven  he  was  the  evil  genius  that  brought 
disaster. 

Lowell  stood  in  the  way  of  the  accomplishment  of 
his  designs  and  Lowell  sank  into  the  sea.  Then  little 
Gerald — and  he  too  had  disappeared. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  and  even  a  year  and  more  had 
dragged  slowly  along  since  the  child  had  been  stolen, 
when  one  evening  George  appeared  at  the  door  with  a 
little  deformed  child.  He  said  he  was  a  waif  in  the 
city  that  he  had  picked  up,  homeless  and  deserted,  and 
he  thought  Doyt  might  take  it  in  lieu  of  her  own. 
George  had  lost  his  old-time  hauteur.  He  had  merged 
all  his  strength  into  one  passion  and  failed.  He 
seemed  to  want  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  atone  to  Doyt 
for  the  loss  of  her  child.  He  had  brought  this  little 
foundling  to  her  that  her  care  and  love  for  it  might 
make  her  misery  more  bearable.  At  first  she  would 
not  accept  the  offer.     She  said: 

"If  Gerald  should  come  back  some  sad,  sweet  night, 
I  would  not  have  him  think  he  was  forgotten.  I  can- 
not allow  him  to  steal  into  my  heart.  Oh,  the  mock- 
ery of  it  all!" 

The  tired,  sad  look  that  came  into  the  little  boy's 
eye  as  he  felt  that  he  was  to  be  turned  from  the  door 
appealed  to  Doyt's  warm  heart,  and  she  took  him  in. 

She  saw  that  he  had  hair  of  the  same  rich  color, 
curling  in  the  same  soft  ringlets,  and  was  of  about  the 
same  age  as  Gerald.     She  wondered  what  had  blijjhted 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  243 

tliat  little  life.  He  was  huncli-baeked,  yet  otherwise 
passably  fair.  Her  sympathies,  woman-like,  were  en- 
listed because  of  his  deformity. 

Dorcas  named  him  "Little  Gene."  After  a  bath,  a 
change  of  clothing  and  a  hearty  supper,  the  little  new- 
comer seemed  to  take  more  interest  in  the  things  about 
him.  His  eyes  had  the  same  look  of  a  wild  animal 
entrapped,  a  restless  expression,  equally  of  fear  and 
wonder. 

At  the  time  that  George  brought  him  to  her  she  felt 
that  the  little  one  needed  care,  and  consented  to  take 
him,  with  hardly  a  second  thought.  Eeally  at  the  time 
of  little  Gene's  arrival  her  whole  mentality  was  cen- 
tered in  the  belief  that  she  was  on  the  track  of  her 
child. 

Little  Gene  became  a  member  of  the  household. 
He  was  silent,  patient,  and  uncomplaining.  He  was 
grateful  for  the  smallest  favor.  He  seemed  to  yearn 
for  Boyt's  love,  but  would  not  put  forth  the  huniblest 
title  to  any  show  of  her  attention. 

She  would  often  look  at  him  as  though  bound  by  a 
spell.  She  must  not  love  hini' — she  must  save  her 
heart  for  her  own. 

"A  sweet  little  fellow,"  she  said  as  she  turned  away 
into  the  sunlight  and  left  him  alone. 

One  evening,  after  returning  home  wearied  and  dis- 
heartened from  a  day  of  unavailable  search,  she  came 
slowly  out  on  the  rear  porch  where  the  little  fellow,  in 
the  midst  of  his  playthings,  sat.  He  had  not  been 
disturbed  by  her  light  footfall,  and  she  found  him 
leaning  far  forward  in  his  tiny  chair,  one  hand  with  its 
little  thin  fiugers  spread  out  on  the  floor  to  brace  him- 
self, he  was  peering  underneath  the  branches  of  the 
trees  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  lower  end  of  the  ave- 
nue. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  hurt  the  tired  little  back," 
she.said,  as  stoopiug  she  lifted  him  gently  back  to  po- 
sition in  his  seat.     Then  looking  down  upon  him,  she 


244  ^^  <^^D  MADE  HER. 

asked  abstractedly,  ''Just  now,  as  I  came  upon  you, 
what  were  you  doing  Little  Gene?" 

The  sweet  softness  that  always  overspread  the  vivid 
little  face  whenever  he  was  in  Doyt's  presence  came 
into  it  now.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  then  looking  up 
inio  the  face  that  bent  above  him,  confidingly  he  said, 
with  pretty  childish  intonation: 

"Why,  i  was  looking  to  see  if  I  couldn't  see  Little 
Pet  coming." 

She  gave  a  start  of  surprise  at  the  unexpected  an- 
swer, impressed  not  only  by  the  words  but  by  the  earn- 
estness of  his  manner. 

Xot  all  the  sympathy  that  had  been  offered  her  since 
the  coming  of  her  sorrow  had  contained  the  value 
found  in  this. 

A  sense  of  tender  gratitude  toward  the  afflicted 
child,  who  to  the  exclusion  of  his  own  woes  could  think 
of  the  coming  of  her  lost  child.  A  subtle  feeling  of 
attraction  toward  him  filled  her  soul  to  think  that  his 
little  baby  heart  throbbed  in  unison  with  her  own. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  studying  the  sweet  face,  as 
though  bound  by  a  spell,  then  the  loyalty  of  the  moth- 
er's heart  came  uppermost. 

She  must  not  love  him.  All  the  intensity  of  her 
affectionate  heart  must  be  reserved  for  her  own. 

"A  dear  little  fellow,"  she  said,  and  stooping  again 
she  placed  her  arm  for  a  moment  about  the  little  frail 
body,  then  turned  away  in  the  twilight  and  left  him 
alone. 

Little  Gene  listened  till  her  last  footsteps  had  died 
away  and  he  fell  back  into  his  own  little  world  again. 

His  stricken  life  made  him  sensitive  and  shrinking. 

Once  Doyt  said:  "You  little  lamb,  what  have  you 
been  through  that  you  are  so  patient  now?" 

She  caressed  his  wan  cheek  and  he  looked  up  with 
such  gratitude.  When  she  sat  by  him  when  eating, 
his  food  seemed  to  have  a  better  flavor.     His  languirl 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  245 

face  brightened  in  her  presence  with  an  embarrassed 
eagerness. 

One  day  little  Gene  grew  so  ill  he  could  not  leave 
his  bed-chamber.     He  had  become  alarmingly  feeble. 

When  Doyt  entered  the  room,  however  sick,  he  would 
look  up  and  try  to  smile.  Dorcas  said:  "He  rallies  to 
the  sound  of  your  voice  more  than  to  any  other.  He's 
your  devoted  little  lover,  Doyt,  and  true  as  steel." 


24G  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  L. 

■  At  length  George  came,  on  a  day  when  the  house 
stood  bathed  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  all  about  it 
was  the  odor  of  luscious  fruits. 

Doyt  quickly  hurried  to  meet  him.  She  had  met 
with  crushing  disappointment  many  times,  still  she 
reeled  as  from  a  blow  when  he  told  her  that  his  latest 
mission  had  been  fruitless. 

As  she  talked  with  George,  in  spite  of  her  own  deep 
feelings,  she  noticed  that  a  great  change  had  come 
over  him.  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  watching  his 
face  to  see  if  she  might  read  hope  there.  His  nerves 
seemed  tense  and  he  wore  the  air  of  one  who  had  braced 
himself  for  a  conflict.  His  face  was  pale  and  wan. 
She  leaned  against  the  door  for  support,  and  her  hun- 
gry, desolate  heart  for  the  moment  stopped  its  beating. 
With  all  that  she  had  endured  she  began  to  feel  that 
"now  a  crisis  was  at  hand;  that  George  had  something 
of  importance  to  impart,  but  whether  for  good  or  ill 
she  was  unable  to  decide.  She  went  over  to  him  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  said  eagerly: 

"Why  are  you  excited,  George?'^ 

Then  he  seemed  to  collect  himself,  and  said  in  a  sur- 
prised way: 

"Why,  Doyt,  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  Do  I  appear  to 
you  so?'^ 

Then  he  quickly  changed  the  subject. 

"How  is  little  Gene?"  he  said,  and  there  was  anxiety 
in  his  voice.     "Let  me  go  with  you  to  see.'^ 

When  they  entered  the  room  the  child  lay  quietly  on 
his  little  white  pillow  with  Aunt  Dorcas  holding  watch. 
The  •  patient's  death-like  face  was  upturned  and  he 
looked  up  eagerly  with  his  great  eyes  into  George's 
face. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  247 

George  took  the  little  hand  and  bent  over  the  baby 
invalid  and  listened  to  his  qniek  breath  and  felt  his 
bounding  pulse. 

Doyt  looked  on  and  said:  "You  love  the  little  fel- 
low, donH  you,  George  ?" 

Then  he  left  the  sick  chamber  and  walked  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  Long  Eooni.  Before  he  had  ad- 
vanced many  steps  he  turned  about  and  there  was  a 
peculiar  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  said: 

"Come  with  me,  will  you  .Doyt?  I  have  something 
I  want  to  say  to  you/' 

She  followed  him  and  when  they  were  seated  in  the 
beautiful  Long  Eoom,  he  meditated  a  moment  and 
then  abruptly  said: 

"Doyt,  look  here — to-morrow  you  shall  have  your 
child." 

She  listened,  she  understood.  The  light  in  the  room 
was  dim  and  she  could  only  indistinctly  see  his  face. 
His  voice  was  strange.     Could  he  mean  what  he  said? 

Her  waiting,  desolate,  famished  heart  longed,  yet 
feared  to  believe.  His  lips  had  spoken  the  words,  the 
sweetest  of  all  words  to  her  ear  but  in  some  way 
George's  manner  did  not  suit  the  message. 

He  saw  the  intense  surprise  she  was  laboring  under 
and  spoke  again.     With  a  smile,  he  said: 

"To-morrow  you  shall  have  your  boy.  After  having 
faith  in  me  so  long,  do  not  distrust  me  now." 

Then  she  rushed  up  to  him  out  of  breath,  her  head 
was  dizzy  with  sudden  joy,  she  said: 

"George,  tell  me  all — have  you  found  him?  Take 
me  to  him." 

A  great  fear  was  on  her.  "I  must  know."  She 
clutched  his  arm  and  said: 

"Tell  me,  George,  is  he  dead?" 

"Xo,"  he  answered  slowly.  He  took  her  trembling 
hand  in  his,  "You  shall  have  him,  I  say,  to-morrow." 

She  clung  to  him,  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  and 
she  said  eagerly,  excitedly: 


248  -4.-Sr  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"Let  me  go  to  him  now — take  me,  only  take  me  now! 
I'll  promise  to  do  as  you  say— anything  you  want  me 
to  do,  George,  only  take  me  to  him — you  will,  won't 
you  George?     Take  me!" 

Her  face  was  lit  up  with  the  sweet  light  of  old. 

"Doyt,"  he  said,  holding  her  at  arms'  length,  "it  is 
hard  to  deny  you,  but  you  must  not  ask  me,  I  cannot 
do  it.  Not  a  power,  human  or  Divine,  it  seems  to  me, 
could  move  me  like  your  voice,  for  whether  you  ever 
believe  it  or  not,  Doyt,  no  man  ever  loved  a  woman  as 
I  have  loved  you.  You  could  never  believe  me;  but 
there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you.  I  would  wait 
forever,  risk  my  hopes  of  Heaven,  suffer  the  tortures 
of  hell,  if  afterward  1  might  sit  by  your  side;  I  would 
work  forever  with  the  hope  of  winning  you.  I  would 
do  anything,  all  things  for  you,  but  listen  to  me,  I 
cannot  take  you  to  him^  now.  To-morrow  you  shall 
have  him.     I  shall  come  again  at  this  hour  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  hold  him  in  my  arms  to-morrow!  I  shall 
kiss  his  lips,  I  shall  hear  his  voice,  I  shall  feel  his 
little  arms  around  my  neck!  My  own  sweet,  lost  baby 
boy  will  be  here  in  his  home  again' — alive!"  Her 
beautiful  eyes  shone  like  diamonds. 

"T  can  wait,  George,  I  can  wait  till  to-morrow,  that 
is,"  she  said,  "if  I  do  not  die  of  joy  before." 

Then  she  rushed  over  and  stood  under  her  father's 
picture.  She  looked  up  into  the  grand,  kindly  face 
and  said: 

"Father,  did  you  hear?  It's  Doyt,  your  Doyt,  that 
speaks  to  you!"  She  was  sobbing  now — Our  baby's 
coming  home  again,  father,  to-morrow.  I  don't  come 
to  you  in  sorrow  this  time,  father.  Listen,  father, 
now  it's  joy.  Father,  listen  to  me!  He's  coming  back 
here  where  we  all  loved  him  so,  and  I  shall  hold  him 
again,  to-morrow.  N'ow  I  must  go  to  Aunt  Dorcas," 
but  George  caught  her  hand  again. 


A  f^TORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  049 

"Wait,  Do}  t/'  he  said  eagerly,  "I  must  go  now  and 
YOU  must  tell  me  good-bye/'  "  Solemnly,  "To-night, 
you  know,  we  part.     I  go  out  of  your  life  to-morrow." 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  merry,  hysterical  laugh,  "you 
believe  I  shall  think  of  nothing  but  my  baby,  but  T 
shall  not  forget  you  altogether,  George." 

"Look  here,  Doyt,"  he  said  sadly^  "I  don't  com- 
plain, perhaps  it  will  be  better  if  you  do.  But  before 
we  part,  allow  me  Avhat,  through  all  the  years  of  my 
devotion,  has  never  been  granted  to  me  before." 

He  lifted  the  soft  white  hand  to  his  lips,  he  pressed 
it  for  a  moment,  then  turned  and  was  gone. 


250  ^^  <'^i^   MADE  HER. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

AVhen  George  had  left  the  lioiise,  with  beaming  face 
and  agile  feet,  Doyt  hurried  to  carry  to  Aunt  Dorcas 
the  happy  news. 

As  she  came  rushing  noisily  ont  in  a  perfect  delir- 
ium of  joy,  Aunt  Dorcas  hastened  from  the  sick  room 
to  meet  her,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Doyt  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  hugged 
her  convulsively,  and  cndng  and  laughing  together, 
she  said: 

^'Aunt  Dorcas,  my  baby  is  coming  to  me  at  last. 
He's  coming,  do  you  hear?     He's  coming  to-morrow.'^ 

"Yes,  dear,"  Dorcas  held  her  in  her  arms  and  laid 
her  cheek  to  hers  and  said:  "AVhat,  George  told  you? 
Did  he  tell  you  he  would  be  here  to-morrow?" 

Then  looking  back  toward  the  door  of  the  sickroom, 
she  said  with  the  utmost  tenderness: 

"Be  careful,  Doyt,  don't  disturb  him.  He  is  asleep 
— Little  Gene,  I  am  afraid  he  is  worse." 

Then  they  walked  softly  farther  away  and  Doyt  re- 
counted to  her  aunt's  anxious  ears  the  interview. 

"I  didn't  understand  George  at  all,"  she  said,  "I  did 
not  understand  anything  he  said  or  did,  only  he  told 
me  I  should  have  my  babe  on  the  morrow;  that  he 
was  alive;  that  he  had  seen  him  to-day,  and  oh!  when 
I  begged,  he  would  not  tell  me  how  he  looked  or  if  I 
should  know  him.  Only  one  thing,  he  said,  and  that 
was  that  I  should  see  him  to-morrow.  I  don't  know 
how  he  found  him,  who  had  had  him,  or  how  he  had 
been  cared  for,  but.  Aunt  Dorcas,"  she  said  with  en- 
thusiasm, "no  matter,"  she  hesitated,  "what  peril  he's 
been  in" — her  face  lit  up  with  its  old  time  glory — "I'll 


A   STORY  OF  GALIFORNIA  LIFE.  251 

cuddle  lip  my  little  stray  lamb  so  warm  that  I'll  make 
him  forget  it  all.  Why,  in  a  day  or  two  you  will  not 
know  him.  Here  with  the  sun  and  the  air  and  plenty 
of  ^loYe^  he  will  grow  and  thrive.'^ 

Suddenly  she  stood  erect,  a  soft  light  beaming  from 
her  beantiful  face,  and  placing  her  hands  softly 
against  her  heart,  she  said: 

"It  seems  so  strange  to  have  the  pain  lifted,  the  pain 
that  for  so  long  has  made  me  quiet." 

With  a  mind  full  of  heavy  thought.  Aunt  Dorcas 
went  back  to  the  sick  room  and  Doyt  went  with  light 
feet  humming  the  good  news  through  the  household. 
Except  the  sick  child,  there  was  no  drawback  to  the 
occasion,  and  with  glad  hands  they  all  made  prepara- 
tion for  the  happiness  of  the  morrow.  Tim  gave 
eager  assistance  and  they  all  worked  far  into  the  night, 
making  the  house  bright  and  cheerful  again. 

Doyt's  room  was  prepared  for  the  reception  of  the 
little  wanderer.  His  little  chair,  so  long  hid  away, 
was  brought  out,  his  tiny  bed,  fresh  restored,  stood 
ready,  as  though  through  all  the  time  it  had  rem.ained 
waiting  for  him. 

The  toys  she  had,  from  time  to  time,  made  ready  for 
his  home  coming,  she  arranged  where  his  hands  could 
reach  them. 

.  Now  and  then  Tim's  boyish  laughter  would  ring  out, 
and  hope  was  so  strong  within  her  that  Doyt's  mingled 
with  it. 

But  now  and  then  she  stopped  and  placed  her  hand 
to  her  puzzled  brain,  as  if  to  stop  the  rush  of  thought 
there. 

How  had  it  all  come  about  so  suddenly?  How  had 
George  found  the  child?  How  would  he  bring  him 
to  her  ?  She  would  restrain  her  curiosity,  and  accept 
it  all  by  faith,  and  she  went  on  with  her  happy  work 
while  Tim  brought  wood  for  the  hearths,  and  with  care 
made  the  fires  ready  to  light. 


252  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

Then  once  in  the  evening  she  went  down  where  the 
sick  child  was,  and  alone  Aunt  Dorcas  was  holding  her 
vigil.  She  sat  watching  little  G-ene  and  wondered 
what  the  morrow  would  bring,  when  Doyt  opened  the 
door. 

As  they  talked  together  Doyt  said  gravely:  'Aunt 
Dorcas,  you  seem  so  unhappy  over  Little  Gene  that  you 
do  not  seem  to  enter  into  the  joy  of  baby's  coming 
back/'  Then  with  almost  furious  eagerness:  "Aunt 
Dorcas,  tell  me,  do  yon  think  George  has  deceived  me? 
That  he  will  not  bring  my  child?'' 

And  Annt  Dorcas  held  her  in  her  arms  as  her  mother 
would  have  held  her,  and  said  soothingly — her  tears 
came  thick  and  fast  now: 

"Doyt,  dear,  I  do  not  know  how  to  answer.  I  have 
seen  you  so  often  tortured  with  disappointment  that 
I  have  not  the  heart  to  raise  a  single  hope." 

Doyt  could  not  comprehend  her  anxiety  and  walk- 
ing away,  lost  in  thought  of  the  morrow,  said:  "I  want 
now  to  sleep,  for  when  my  baby  is  here  to-morrow 
night  I  shall  not  be  able  to  close  my  eyes." 

The  morning  was  bright  and  warm  and  the  house- 
hold was  astir  early.  Doyt,  who  had  found  no  sleep 
till  toward  the  dawn,  wakened  suddenly.  She  gazed 
on  the  playthings  scattered  about  the  room  and  on  the 
little  smooth,  snowy  bed,  and  her  first  feeling  was  a 
full  and  absolute  belief  that  her  child  would  be  re- 
turned to  her.  Then  there  came  a  passionate  eager- 
ness for  the  tedious  intervening  hours  to  pass.  The 
next  moment,  as  the  memory  of  all  the  disappoint- 
ments through  which  she  had  passed  came  to  her  sharp 
and  fresh,  she  felt  forced  to  reject  it  as  incredible 
that  such  happiness  could  await  her. 

Before  she  left  the  room  she  stooped  over  the  minia- 
ture armchair  that  his  plump  form  once  so  cunningly 
filled;  she  stood  by  the  little  bed  and  when  she  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  indented  pillow  a  feeling  of  vivid  hap- 
piness came  over  her  at  the  thought  of  the  possible 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  £53 

presence  of  her  lost  darling  in  the  home  nest  again. 
She  recalled  with  a  startling  clearness  the  dainty, 
delicate,  exquisite  little  form  that  once  lay  there  in 
all  its  freshness  and  loveliness;  the  fair  little  face, 
the  rounded  limhs,  the  dimpled  elbows,  the  soft  curve 
of  the  cheek,  the'  sunny  eyes,  the  divine  mouth.  She 
tried  to  still  the  restless  yearning  that  possessed  her, 
and  while  her  every  nerve  thrilled  with  the  impulse  to 
rush  and  meet  him,  all  she  could  do  was  to  watch  the 
clock  slowly  tick  off  the  minutes  and  impatiently  wait. 

She  went  over  and  stood  against  the  window  and 
leaned  her  head  against  the  pane. 

She  asked  herself' — How  had  George  found  him  at 
last? 

She  puzzled  her  brain  about  why  he  should  have 
been  so  reticent  about  telling  her.  How  would  George 
bring  him?  And  with  a  throb  of  joyous  emotion  she 
thought — when  her  baby  came,  would  he  run  to  meet 
her? 

Would  he  remember  the  place?  She  had  tried  to 
arrange  his  playthings  just  as  he  had  left  them.  She 
had  placed  his  bed  in  the  same  corner  where  he  used 
to  slee]:^ — that  things  might  seem  familiar.  Then  a 
soft  warmth  came  into  her  face  as  she  thought — How 
would  he  look?  She  remembered  well  every  feature. 
She  was  certain  she  knew.  She  thought  again:  Why 
was  George's  manner  so  strange?  Would  he  tell  her 
where  her  little  one  had  been?  Her  lip  quivered  as 
she  thought,  would  she  know  whether  he  had  always 
been  treated  kindly?  A  sick  horror  came  over  her  as 
she  thought:  What  if  he  had  not,  and  what  if  he 
should  in  some  way  bear  the  marks  of  the  unkindness! 

She  moved  quickly  away  from  the  window  and  went 
downstairs  to  seek  the  open  air.  She  quickly  put  away 
the  horror  of  the  thought. 

The  glow  of  the  summer  was  on  everything  about. 
The  breath  of  the  morning  was  refreshing;  the  win- 
dows were  thrown  open  and  the  house  was  filled  with 


254  ^^  (^OD  MADE  HER. 

light  and  color,  and  the  old-time  cheer  that  once  held 
possession  seemed  to  have  returned. 

When  the  morning  work  was  done  they  brought 
flowers  and  decorated  parlor  and  dining-room  and  hall, 
but  in  spite  of  the  brightness  and  fragrance,  a  haunt- 
ing suspense  and  uncertainty  seemed  to  throw  an  air 
of  oppression  over  the  rooms. 

Tim,  thankful  for  any  little  show  of  liveliness, 
romped  here  and  there  through  the  house  with  his 
old  time  abandon. 

Torn  by  conflicting  feelings,  a  vacillating  between 
hope  and  despair,  the  hours  dragged  slowly  along. 
While  she  waited,  painfully  susceptible  to  every  sound, 
she  started  at  every  jar  or  stir.  She  spent  her  time 
wandering  here  and  there  about  the  house.  Some- 
times she  sat  and  talked  in  a  low  tone  with  Aunt  Dor- 
cas, who  sat  in  quiet  faithfulness  by  the  sick  child. 
ISTow  and  then  she  spoke  of  her  plans  for  the  future, 
of  her  child,  of  the  things  she  wanted  to  do  for  him^ 

Time  moved  on  in  monotonous  measure.  At  noon- 
time the  sun  came  in  at  the  open  window  of  the  white 
chamber  and  lit  up  panel  and  door  and  drapery.  It 
fell  among  the  golden  meshes  of  Doyt's  waving  hair  as 
she  stood' -in  a  dress  of  mist}^'  whiteness.  She  was 
without  ornament,  save  a  bitnch  of  violets  and  mai- 
den-hair. Lookihgupon  her,  the  Doyt  of  long  ago 
seemed  to  have  returned.  The  healthful  bloom 
seemed  to  have  conie  back  to  her  face,  and  the  strange 
exquisite  here  seemed  to  have  brought  again  the  old 
light  to  her  beautiful  eyes. 

.    As  they  watched,  the  leaves  of  the  trees  along  the 
splendid  avenue  were  softly  moving  in  the  afternoon. 

At  the  "hour  appointed  for  his  arrival,  George  came. 
.  At  the  moment  he  appeared  in  full  view  from  be- 
hind the  palms,  they  saw  that  he  was  alone.     He  ap- 
proached the  group  silently. 

When  a  few  feet  away  from  where  Doyt,  in  her 
white  robe,   stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  355 

of  the  veranda,  he  stopped  and  gazed  with  steadfast 
intentness  on  the  perfectly  chiseled  face,  the  lustrous 
eyes,  the  sunny  hair,  the  gracefully  modeled  form. 

He  stood  puzzled,  bent  as  under  some  intolerable 
weight.  Perhaps  he  was  glad  he  had  thus  seen  her, 
a  beautiful  picture  to  live  forever  in  his  memory. 

His  face  was  ashen  white  and  years  of  age  seemed 
to  have  suddenly  come  upon  him.  A  moment  later, 
with  soft  voice  and  almost  unimpeachable  grace  of 
manner,  he  bowed  before  her. 

A  look  of  death  came  over  her  face  as  she  leaned 
there,  and  he  seemed  to  realize  the  terrible  strain  and 
was  the  first  to  break  the  painful  silence. 

To  her  surprise,  he  asked  in  a  husky  voice: 

"Is  Little   Gene  alive  r 

"Yes,^^  she  said. 

"Take  me  to  him.^' 

She  studied  his  face  and  mechanically  conducted 
him,  calmly  and  quietly,  to  the  little  sufferer. 

They  went  through  the  hall.  She  asked  not  a  ques- 
tion. Like  a  somnambulist  she  walked.  As  they 
neared  the  door  of  the  sick  chamber,  she  turned  and 
said  in  a  soft  tone  and  slowly: 

"He  is  very  low.     We  must  enter  noiselessly." 
.  Pie  bowed  to  Dorcas  as  they  went  within. 

Outside  was  the  song  of  birds  and  not  far  from  the 
door  the  great  oak  loomed  up  formidably.  The  dark 
green  of  the  palms  contrasted  with  the  light  shades 
of  the  trees  that  were  just  in  leaf.  Flowers  of  vivid 
color  variegated  the  landscape.  Through  the  open 
door  the  slanting  sunshine  fell  in  broad  lines  upon  the 
floor  and  came  in  at  the  window  through  a  tangled 
net  work  of  rose  vines. 

The  sick  child,  now  in  almost  infantile  helplessness, 
had  lain  quiet  all  the  day,  wistfully  gazing  out  on  the 
moving  shadows  among  the  trees.  It  was  as  though 
he  admired  and  loved  it  all,  and  in  the  dreamy  rlepths 
of  his  eyes  there  was  a  sadness  as  if  he  were  taking  his 


256 


Ati  GOD  MADE  HER. 


last  look  at  this  beautiful  world.  He  seemed  to  pos- 
ses? a  delicacy  of  nature  and  to  be  strangely  white  and 
pure,  as  thoiigh  he  belonged  almost  to  some  holier 
sphere. 

The  two  walked  over  and  together  stood  by  the  bed- 
side, looking  down  upon  the  little  serene,  serious  face. 

The  child  stirred  and  slowly  raised  his  languid  lids 
with  their  long  soft  lashes,  and  gazed  from  one  to  the 
other,  then  fixed  his  deep,  lustrous  eyes  upon  Doyt. 

He  was  so  near  the  other  world  that  Heaven's  light 
seemed  reflected  in  his  face.  A  shadow  of  a  smile 
for  her  broke  over  it,  and  he  slowly  and  timidly  reached 
toward  her  his  thin,  translucent  hand. 

George  spoke,  and  though  he  tried  to  be  calm,  he 
could  not  hide  the  tremulousness  of  his  voice.  If  he 
had  had  a  speech  improvised  for  the  occasion  he  did 
not  use  it.     He  said: 

"TaH  it,  Doyt,  it  is  the  hand  of  your  child !" 

The  limp  little  fragile  hand  lay  within  her  own. 

All  unanticipated  by  her,  the  words  fell  on  her  ear? 
and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

What  he  said  went  through  her  being  and  stirred 
her  innermost  soul.  With  all  her  surprise  the  com- 
plete idea  took  possession  of  her  almost  instanta- 
neously. With  her  his  words  needed  no  confirmation. 
At  that  moment,  she  knew^  he  spoke  the  truth. 

She  gently  bent  her  face  to  the  babe's  and  he  laid 
his  other  hand  against  her  soft  cheek.  She  had 
through  troublous  years,  schooled  herself  to  self-con- 
trol and  save  a  contraction  of  the  sweet  lips  there  was 
no  outward  CAddence  of  great  emotion.  She  made  no 
sound  but  drew  the  child  toward  her  with  a  soft,  con- 
vulsive pressure  and,  leaning  over  him,  seemed  feeding 
upon  his  face. 

Undoing  the  strings  with  which  it  had  been  tied, 
and  reaching  across  the  bed,  Georoe  handed  to  Annt 
Dorcas  a  package.     He  said  quietly: 


•A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  257 

^•'What  this  contains  will  prove  to  you  that  what  I 
have  said  is  true." 

His  face  was  dark  with  pain  as  he  spoke,  and  be- 
fore anyone  could  address  him  he  turned  and  went 
quickly — ^went  for  the  last  time' — over  the  threshold 
of  the  house,  with  whose  history  he  had  been  so  long 
and  so  closely  connected. 

While  Doyt  glanced  toward  it,  Dorcas  quietly  laid 
open  the  package.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  they  saw 
there  lying  before  them  the  delicate  clothes,  the  little 
stockings  and  shoes,  and  fastened  into  the  dainty  lace 
of  the  tiny  dress,  the  two  diamond  pins,  seemmgly, 
through  all  the  intervening  time,  undisturbed  and 
just  as  they  had  been  placed  there  by  Doyt's  own 
hands. 

Then  the  people  of  the  place  who  had  collected 
about  the  door,  listening  breathlessly,  went  out,  one 
by  one.  They  gathered  in  the  warm  sunlight  and 
talked  together  in  low  tones  of  the  sainted  child  who 
had  been  lost,  and  who  had  been  weary  and  neglected 
and  beaten,  and  who  had  so  gently  and  quietly  come 
among  them  for  protection  and  shelter,  and  who  had 
been  all  the  time  their  own,  own  baby. 

They  spoke  of  his  illness  and  of  the  sad  joy  that  had 
come  at  last  td  the  girl  mother,  and  there  were  glis- 
tening eyes  among    the  men    and    broken  voices  and 
tear-flooded  faces  among:  the  women. 
17 


158  AS  GOD  MADt:  UER. 


CHAPTEE  LII. 

As  the  stream  of  sunlight  grew  and  reached  farther 
across  the  floor  Doyt  stood  over  her  child,  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  snfl'ering  the  little  one  held  to  her  hand 
and  up  into  her  bended  face  smiled  his  infant  grati- 
tude that  he  had  not  been  repulsed. 

Gently  she  stood  and  soothed  him,  and  to  one  look- 
ing on  a  marked  quietness  held  every  muscle  and  not  a 
sob  escaped  her  till  at  length,  seeming  to  feel  safe  and 
secure  in  her  love,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  little  face  lay  without  a  cloud.  She  softly 
kissed  the  little  spiritual  mouth,  then  turning  in  gen- 
tlest tone,  said: 

"Call  me,  Aunt  Dorcas,  if  there  is  any  change." 
Then  because  she  could  trust  herself  no  longer,  she 
tenderly  gathered  up  the  tiny  clothing  touching  it 
reverently  piece  by  piece,  and  swiftly  and  silently  went 
out  of  the  room. 

There  was  within  her  soul  such  a  mingling  of  bliss 
and  agony,  and  almost  stilled  by  the  tumultuous  swell- 
ing of  the  heart,  she  flew  through  the  corridor  and  up 
the  stairs  to  her  room,  and  closed  the  door.  In  the 
last  hour  she  seemed  to  have  lived  ages. 

The  memory  of  her  babe  had  been  to  her  always  as 
a  lovely  dream.  She  had  caught  the  inspiration  from 
her  father,  and  had  always  so  loved  the  healthful  and 
the  beautiful,  and  in  her  mind  it  seemed  she  had  al- 
ways carried  an  ineffaceable  picture  of  her  child,  per- 
fect in  form,  feature,  and  limb.  She  had  never  once 
associated  her  boy  with  the  idea  of  imperfection.  Be- 
sides, George  had  given  to  her  the  full  story  of  the 
parentage  of  the  child  he  had  brought  to  them,  and 
she  had  believed  and  never  questioned. 


A  STORY  OF  C  ALIFORM  A  LIFE.  259 

,  ill  agony,  now,  sLe  crvvclt  on  Uie  tlionght  of  the  rude 
treatment  the  little  one  must  have  received  to  have 
wrought  the  piteous  change. 

The  sweetness  of  the  thought  that  she  had  hack  her 
child,  that  she  might  feast  her  hungry  mother  eyes 
upon  him  and  know  how  he  was  faring,  was  mingled 
with  the  fear  that  it  was  only  soon  to  lose  him  again. 

Almost  stronger  than  all  was  the  passionate  remorse 
that  during  all  the  time  that  he  had  been  safe  at  home 
and  within  her  reach,  that  though  suffering  and  weak 
and  needy  she  had  blindly  ignored  his  claim  to  her  love 
and  devotion. 

Alone  in  her  own  room,  all  beautified  for  his  recep- 
tion, and  away  where  he  would  not  be  disturbed,  she 
could  control  her  agony  no  longer.  Her  brain 
throbbed,  an  intense  chilliness  came  over  her  and  hei 
body  shook  almost  as  though  her  soul  would  take  its 
flight. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Dorcas  opened 
it  and  came  in,  and  in  her  gentle  sweet  voice,  though 
her  own  eyes  were  suffused  in  tears,  she  sought  to 
speak  w^ords  of  comfort. 

She  had  thrown  herself  on  a  stool  by  the  bedside  and 
buried  her  face  in  its  cover. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Dorcas!"  she  burst  out  wildly,  "^Yhere 
was  my  boasted  mother  instinct?  I  think  I  must  have 
been  mad  not  to  have  known  him." 

The  remorse  that  had  taken  possession  of  her  for 
a  time  dulled  all  other  feeling  in  its  intensity,  and  in 
broken  voice  and  disconnected  words  she  continued  to 
reproach  herself. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Dorcas!"  she  sobbed,  "Because  ill-treat- 
ment stole  the  elasticity  from  his  baby  limbs  and  the 
joy  from  his  infant  soul;  because  foul  air  took  away 
the  tinting  from  his  soft  skin  and  dwarfed  the  rounded 
muscles,  because  a  fall,  blows,  bruises,  perhaps,  had 
twisted  his  back,  because  he  was  not  plump  and  rosy 
and  radiant  like  the  babe  that  I  lost,  I  turned  away 


2(50  AS  GOD  MADE  HER. 

from  all  his  pleadings  and  refused  to  look  upon  his 
little  misshapen  body.  While  you,  you,  Aunt  Dorcas" 
— here  she  clung  to  the  hand  that  caressed  her  and 
kissed  il  ag.iin  and  again — "you  tended  and  nursed 
and  soothed  my  forsaken,  my  gentle,  quiet,  uncom- 
plaining bab}'  boy.  When  he  came  home  again,  tired 
and  wounded,  I  gave  him  scarce  a  word  of  welcome, 
not  a  single  kiss  of  love,  and  other  hands  than  mine, 
kinder  hands,  cared  for  him — my  own  baby  boy!  And 
when  he  came  back  to  me  I  turned  a  stranger's  face  to 
him,  and  all  the  time  those  beautiful  pleading  eyes 
had  a  spell  for  me,  iDut  I  put  it  away  from  me  and 
would  liaA^e  none  of  it.  Just  think  of  it!  In  my  in- 
fatuation, think,  how,  day  after  day,  pursuing  shadows 
I  have  gone  away  and  left  him  to  suffer!  How  I  tried 
to  put  away  from  me  and  forget  the  pathetic  appeal- 
ing look  he  gave  me  when  I  left  him!  How  I  steeled 
my  heart  against  the  sweet,  innocent,  guileless  face! 
Then  when  I  came  home  again  after  leaving  him  for 
days- — long  lonely  days,  filled  with  pain  and  suffering, 
I  had  no  tender  greeting  for  his  waiting,  hungry  baby 
soul.  Memory  was  busy;  I  did  not  soften  I  did  not  re- 
lent. The  silent  appeals  he  made  to  me  ought  to  have 
melted  my  heart,  but  they  did  not.  I  was  made  of 
stone.  Once,  you  remember,  Aunt  Dorcas  I  came 
home  and  though  he  had  waited  patiently  for  my  com- 
ing I  was  so  selfish  in  my  sorrow  that  I  did  not  go 
near  him.  Just  before  I  went  to  bed  I  looked  in  and 
there  he  lay  asleep,  his  left  hand  under  his  cheek  and 
on  the  other,  the  uppermost  one,  rested  a  great 
tear.  Gone  to  sleep  disappointed,  but  without  a 
murmur!  Oh,  Aunt  Dorcas,  it  all  comes  to  me  now 
with  such  force!  The  most  stupid  mother  in  all 
the  wide  world  ought  to  have  comprehended. 
Oh,  when  T  think,  I  reahze  that  all  the  time  he 
knew,''  she  said  bitterly.  "Do  you  remember.  Aunt 
Dorcas,  how  he  used  to  creep  timidly  up  to  me,  my 
beautiful,  fair  boy,  and  how  I  closed  my  heart  against 


A   STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  261 

him,  and  put  him  away?  Oh,  I  never  once  showed 
him  that  I  could  be  tender!  Oh,  Aunt  Dorcas,  why 
did  I  do  it?  Had  I  suffered  until  compassion  had  died 
out  of  my  heart?  All  this  while,  when  I  was  absorbed 
in  my  search,  and  knew  no  pity,  your  heart  was  soft 
and  tender  toward  my  little  babe;  you  showed  your 
humanity;  you  felt  for  his  suffering.  The  velvet 
touch  of  his  little  hand,  the  pleading  look  in  his 
earnest  eyes,  his  wan  and  wistful  countenance  failed 
to  move  me.  Before  my  eyes  he  pined  and  wasted.  I 
was  stone,  and  stood  unmoved  by  it  all.  That  face, 
that  little  soulful  face — the  sweetest  that  God  ever 
made!     A  cherub  strayed  earthward.'^ 

Dorcas  made  an  effort  to  defend  her  from  herself, 
but  she  would  not  listen.  It  seemed  there  was  no 
salve  for  wounds  such  as  hers. 

"No,  don't,^^  she  said  pushing  away  the  woman's 
hand,  "don't  fondle  me,  Aunt  Dorcas!  Don't  say 
'dear'!  Don't  look  at  me  pityingly!  I  can't  bear  it. 
I  don't  deserve  it.  He  was  so  pitiful,  so  good,  so 
gentle." 

She  gave  herself  up  to  utter  abandonment  of  grief. 

She  hid  her  hot  face  in  Dorcas'  lap  and  gave  way 
to  her  pent-up  agony.  Aunt  Dorcas  thought  best  to 
let  her  grief  thus  pass  from  her.  Suddenly  she  raised 
her  flushed  face,  and,  looking  straight  into  Dorcas' 
eyes,  she  said: 

"Aunt  Dorcas,  I  want  to  ask  you-— tell  me.  Aunt 
Dorcas,  did  you  know  it?" 

Her  aunt  started,  and  as  she  hesitated  about  reply- 
ing the  girl  mistook  her  silence. 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  Don't  think  I  can't 
bear  it." 

She  held  her  underlip  a  moment  between  her  teeth. 

"I  have  suffered  almost  all  there  is  to  suffer." 

Dorcas  was  too  choked  to  speak.  With  her  generous 
fealty  was  blended  her  warm  sympathy  for  her 
brother's  child.     She  leaned  back  into  the  shadow  to 


262  ^**^  ^^D  MADE  HER. 

hide  her  emotion.  The  girl  reached  up  and  softly 
caressed  her  clieek^  as  she  said: 

"I  know  you  would  have  been  kind  and  tender  to 
him,  any  way,  but,  tell  me,  did  you  know?  Did  you 
have  an  intuition  that  it  was  he?" 

Dorcas,  rallying,  in  an  unsteady  voice  began: 

"At  first  when  George  brought  him,"  she  said, 
slowly,  "he  was  so  changed  that  I  never  once  thought 
of  it.  At  that  time,  too,  you  remember,  you  thought 
you  were  close  on  the  track  of  our  lost  baby,  and  for 
this  reason  our  minds  were  so  occupied,  and  we  were 
in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that  Little  Gene  became 
a  member  of  the  household  almost  unnoticed.  After 
a  while,  I  began  to  recognize  little  familiar  ways,  and 
sometimes,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  his  quiet,  gentle 
dignity,  reminded  me  of  your  father." 

Doyt's  breath  was  quick  and  loud,  and  her  voice 
was  husky  and  faltering,  as  she  said: 

"'Aunt  Dorcas!"  Her  arms  flung  out,  her  great, 
blue  eyes  swimming  with  tears;  such  grief  was  in  her 
voice,  she  reeled  as  she  walked,  ^^dth  a  burst  of  an- 
guish, and  quivering  mouth,  she  sobbed  bitterly  as 
Dorcas  continued: 

"There  have  been  times  when  I  have  been  so  moved 
by  the  look  he  wore,  so  strange,  yet  so  familiar,  1 
hardly  dared  to  entertain  the  hope  myself,  and  I 
dared  not  encourage  you  in  it,  lest  building  upon  it 
you  would  again  be  disappointed.  Day  after  day, 
though,  when  you  have  been  gone,  Doyt,  I  have  sat 
and  studied  every  line  of  the  childish  face  to  find  in 
it  some  feature  to  prove  to  me,  beyond  all  doubt,  the 
truth  of  what  I  had  surmised.  Once  finding  lodgment 
in  my  brain  the  feeling  grew.  Since  he  got  so  low, 
Doyt,  dear,  I  have  been  in  an  agony  of  doubt  as  to 
what  I  had  better  do.  When  George  came  in  alone 
to-day,  and  befo're  he  spoke,  T  knew." 

"And  why  have  you  never  told  me?  You  must  have 
liad  good  reason." 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  263 

'•I  dicl  not  tell  you,  because  no  matter  how  strongly 
1  was  convinced,  I  had  no  proof,  and,  dear,  I  wanted 
to  spare  you  all  the  pain  I  could.  I  did  not  have  the 
heart  to  raise  false  hopes/' 

Doyt  arose,  and  with  tremulous  step  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  All  her  devotion,  unselfishness,  all 
her  unexhausted  loyalty,  was  forgotten;  all  the  earnest 
sacrifice,  all  the  tireless  search  was  effaced  under  the 
bitter,  gnawing  self-reproach. 

All  she  knew  was  that  he  had  been  needy  and  that 
she  had  neglected  him;  that  he  reached  toward  her 
his  pleading  hands  and  she  had  not  heeded;  that  he 
had  given  sweet  evidence  of  a  child's  devotion  to  her, 
and  she  had  refused  it.  She  felt  now  her  absolute 
helplessness,  and  that  the  sweet  opportunity  offered 
her  she  had  lost — that  the  wrong  she  had  done  could 
neither  be  atoned  for  nor  effaced  from  her  memory. 

Sad  as  had  been  the  past  months  of  her  life,  she 
shrank  still  more  from  the  desolateness  of  the  future. 

D.orcas  was  preparing  to  return  to  the  sick-room. 

A  fresh  agony  faced  Doyt.  Suddenly  she  rallied, 
and,  turning,  she  threw  her  arms  about  her  aunt's 
neck,  and  leaning  her  head  back,  and  looking  straight 
into  her  eyes,  she  said: 

"Aunt  Dorcas,  tell  me,  must  he  die?  Is  there  no 
hope?" 

An  agonizing  silence  ensued. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say  to-day?" 

The  aunt's  suffering  was  porportionate  to  her  own. 

Smoothing  down  the  golden  hair,  "Doyt,  dear,"  she 
said  in  choking  voice,  "he  is  still  alive.  As  long  as 
he  is  alive,  we  may  hope." 

Doyt  still  clung  around  her  neck,  and  mth  an  un- 
natural calmness  awaited  a  full  answer.  Dorcas 
turned  her  head  away. 

"He  said  there  was  barely  a  chance." 

Her  self-control  did  not  again  give  way.  She  took 
Dorcas'  handkerchief  and  smoothed  down  the  motherly 
face.     She  turned  the  knob  of  the  door  and  opened  it. 


264  ^'^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

"Go  back,  now."  Glancing  toward  the  mirror,  she 
said:  "I  will  come  to  him  as  soon  as  I  can." 

She  gathered  up  the  little  clothes  from  the  bed 
where  she  had  lain  them.  She  opened  the  old  drawer 
and  looked  at  the  others  lying  there  so  long  where  she 
had  left  them,  then  kissing  the  little  bundle  fervently, 
she  laid  them  beside  the  others. 

She  hurriedly  bathed  her  face,  smoothed  out  the 
folds  of  the  soft  white  dress,  made  a  strong  effort  to 
remove  every  trace  of  agitation,  and,  sweet  in  her  girl 
loveliness,  in  a  few  minutes  she  went  out  from  that 
chamber  of  suffering  to  do  for  her  child  everything  in 
her  power.  The  thought  that  her  child  needed  her 
was  salutary. 

The  babe  had  slept  quietly  during  her  absence. 
When  he  awakened,  with  softest  words  and  with  in- 
finite gentleness  she  lifted  him  to  a  more  restful  posi- 
tion. Though  his  eyes  had  a  dreamy,  far-away  look, 
he  knew  the  sweet  face  that  smiled  her  love  upon  him. 

As  she  tenderly  hovered  about  him,  she  thought: 
"Could  she  impart  to  his  baby  mind  the  faintest  con- 
ception of  the  love  she  bore  him?"  What  to  her,  com- 
pared to  his  love,  would  have  been  the  homage  of  the 
world ! 

The  hunger  in  her  heart  grew  till  she  was  famish- 
ing for  his  recognition. 

Aunt  Dorcas  sat  near,  and  as  Doyt  held  and  caressed 
the  little  wan  hand,  she  leaned  toward  him. 

"Darling,"  she  said  quietly — it  was  just  as  she  had 
talked  to  him  when  she  had  held  him  before — "darling 
say  'mamma'- — ^just  once,  say  'mamma.' " 

The  grave  little  face  suddenly  flushed  and  lighted. 
She  would  have  given  her  young  life  for  it.  With 
eager,  repressed  anxiety,  with  delighted  anticipation, 
the  seal  of  silence  was  broken — the  little  parched  lips 
parted,  and  the  glorious  crown  w^as  laid  upon  her.  Far 
sweeter    than  music  upon    her   longing  ears    fell  the 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  265 

To  another  it  may  have  seemed  a  trivial  thing,  but 
to  her,  to  whom  every  joy  had  been  denied,  every 
hope  it  seemed  were  blighted,  whose  every  breath  had 
been  suffering,  it  seemed  a  joy  which  during  her  utter 
loneliness  was  unattainable;  something  to  look  back  to 
retrospectively,  a  source  of  peace  in  the  years  to  come. 

She  heard  that  for  which  she  had  craved  for  the  first 
time,  perhaps  for  the  last  time.  It  subtly  thrilled  her 
being,  and  for  the  moment  she  was  happy.  It  was  the 
first  sweet  time;  an  occasion  which  could  never  repeat 
itself,  and  the  word  seemed  to  bind  her  to  the  child 
by  a  tie  which  could  never  be  broken,  but  was  as  end- 
less as  eternity  itself. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away  a  heavy  mist  came  in 
from  the  sea,  and  shut  out  from  view  the  beauty  of  the 
landscape  without.  At  first  the  hills,  then  the  little 
city  in  the  distance  elusively  disappeared,  then  the 
great  palm  in  the  door  yard. 

In  the  sick-room  the  dusky  shadows  had  taken  place 
of  the  sunshine. 

A  fire  kindled  on  the  hearth  threw  its  glare  athwart 
the  room. 

Just  as  night  closed  in  on  the  somber  scene,  while 
the  young  mother  sat  looking  upon  the  little  face, 
anxiously  watching  its  every  change,  the  maid  came  in, 
bringing  to  her  a  card. 

As  she  left  the  room,  Doyt,  without  even  looking  at 
it,  wholly  preoccupied,  laid  it  on  the  table  near  by. 

After  a  short  interval,  the  girl  returned,  and  in  low 
tones  said  to  Doyt: 

"There^s  a  young  man  in  the  parlor.  He's  waiting 
to  see  you.  He  begs  pardon  for  disturbing  you,  but 
very  specially  wishes  to  see  you  to-day." 

"Rosa,"  she  said  sadly,  "tell  him  1  could  not  see 
him;  I  could  not  see  anybody  to-night."  She  stopped 
what  the  girl  was  ready  to  say  to  her,  and  with  some 
emphasis  added:  "No  difference  who,  Eosa,  I  must  be 
alone  to-night." 


2CjCy  -^*^'  ^'OD   MADE  HER. 

A  moment  afterward,  as  she  went  to  move  some  of 
the  articles  that  lay  on  the  table,  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  card  the  girl  had  brought.     She  read: 
"Lawrence  Livingsion,  Berlin.^' 

She  started' — then  vrent  on  tiptoe  across  the  room 
and  handed  the  card  to  Dorcas,  and,  as  the  little  one 
was  h'ing  in  a  quiet  doze,  said: 

"A  moment  only.  Aunt  Dorcas,^'  and  left  the  room. 

She  went  down  through  the  hall  where  the  lights 
were  burning  feebly,  to  the  drawing-room  door  and 
entered. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORXIA  LIFE. 


2G 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

He  stood  in  the  l)rillJaBt  light  of  the  room,  and  as 
she  walked  nearer  she  saw  clearly  the  face  and  form 
of  the  man  who  Availed. 

He  was  handsomely  proportioned,  with  a  shapely 
head  and  intellectnal  face,  brown  and  rnddy,  brilliant, 
sparkling  eyes,  and  carried  with  him  the  polish  and 
composure  that  travel  and  cultnre  bring. 

Everything  was  quiet  save  that  through  the  open 
window  came  the  murmnr  of  the  leaves  and  the  drop- 
ping of  the  moisture  from  them. 

She  advanced  toward  him  to  give  him  welcome,  then 
startled  and  amazed  she  stopped,  and  steadied  herself 
by  resting  one  hand  on  the  corner  of  the  table,  swept 
her  hands  across  her  eyes  to  clear  them,  and,  as  she 
drew  near,  she  reached  out  to  him.  As  he  took  her 
hand  tears  welled  up  to  her  eyes. 

There  was  the  same  characteristic  poise  of  the  head, 
the  alert  grace,  the  wavy,  clustering  hair,  which  lay 
so  softly  on  the  broad  brow  with  which  she  had  been 
so  familiar.  He  had  a  military  erectness,  and  the  same 
serene  restfulness  of  manner. 

She  tried  hard  to  conceal  her  agitation.  She  reached 
out  to  him  her  supple  hand. 

"Don't  think  me  weak,''  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "I 
could  not  make  you  understand,  perhaps.  T  could  not 
explain  myself,  and  I  was  unprepared  to  meet  you." 
The  sweet  lips  quivered  as  she  added:  "I  did  not  ex- 
pect you  to  so  resemble — Lowell — I  have  suffered  and 
it  is  hard  for  me  to  control  myself  to-night."  She 
turned  her  face  away: 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  with  emotion,  "if  my  visit  has 
been  ill-timed.     Your  tears  need  no  apology  to  me," 


268  ^S  (^OD   MADE  HER. 

he  said  gently,  "for  remember,  your  grief  is  mine,  for 
Lowell  was  my  only  brother.  I  see  that  I  was  wrong 
to  come;  that  you  are  overwrought." 

She  sat  down  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat. 
"Oh,  no,"  she  said  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  "don't 
think  that.     I  am  glad  you  came." 

"I-  arrived  only  this  morning,"  he  said,  by  way  of 
explanation.  "It  was  hard  for  me  to  delay  longer  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you;  besides,  I  hoped  that  I  might 
in  some  way  be  of  assistance  to  you.  On  my  way  down 
on  the  train  I  first  learned  from  the  evening  paper 
that  you  had  found  your  lost  child." 

"Yes,  he  is  here."  She  struggled  to  her  feet  again — 
then  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  an  effort — "But  he  is 
very  low." 

There  was  a  look  of  supreme  torture  in  the  eyes  she 
raised  to  his,  and  soul-sickness  in  her  tone,  as  she 
said: 

"They  tell  me  that  I  have  but  a  few  hours  left  in 
which  to  call  him  my  own." 

Her  attitude  was  one  of  despair  as  she  spoke  the 
trying  words.  The  red  shade  which  covered  the  lamp 
threw  its  reflection  on  her  palid  face.  What  she  had 
endured  would  have  exhausted  the  vigor  of  most  other 
women.     He  had  expected  to  find  her  thin  and  wan. 

The  heroic  way  in  which  she  was  trying  to  bear  her 
burden  touched  his  heart.  As  she  stood  there  before 
him,  in  her  snowy  drapery,  she  seemed  so  young;  she 
was  so  freshly  fair;  her  form  so  perfectly  moulded; 
the  lines  that  defined  her  cheek  so  daintily  turned; 
her  sweet  face  so  shaded  to  softness,  she  looked  more 
angelic  than  human,  for  in  spite  of  her  agony  of  mind 
she  was  full-pulsed  still,  a  creature  of  exquisite  beauty, 
the  product  of  clean  air  and  sunshine  and  stored  up 
vitality.  AYhen  he  reviewed  the  condition  of  her  mind 
he  found  that  he  had  not  thought  of  her  in  her  own 
individuality,  but  simply  as  his  brother's  wife,  prepared 
for  devotion  to  her  from  the  fact  of  relationship,  and 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  269 

now  he  found  his  soul  touched  by  her  marvelous  per- 
fection of  form  and  feature.  A  sudden  impulse  came 
over  him;  a  desire  to  guard  her  from  all — to  shield  her 
from  sutfering  took  possession  of  him. 

A  momentary  silence  ensued. 

"Don^t  sacrifice  your  wishes^^  he  said  eagerly. 
"DonH  remain  away  a  moment  from  your  sick  child 
because  I  am  here." 

As  he  looked  into  her  agonized  face,  he  would  have 
given  much  to  have  been  able  to  speak  words  of  hope 
and  comfort,  but  how^  could  he  know  that  he  was  jus- 
tified in  doing  so?  As  it  was  he  made  impetuous  reso- 
lutions. 

Bowing  low,  he  said  persuasively:  "Will  you  allow 
me  to  return  with  you?"* 

The  young  man  had  such  a  sanguine  manner;  he 
was  so  strong,  so  surcharged  with  life  and  spirit  that 
from  the  first  she  had  in  some  way  acquired  a  feeling 
of  security  in  his  presence.  The  very  tone  of  his  voice 
seemed  to  raise  her  spirits  and  and  inspire  her  with 
hope. 

"You  surely  do  not  need  to  beg  permission  from  me 
to  see  your  brothers  child.  Yes,'^  she  said,  "we  will 
go  to  the  little  invalid  now.  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
come — ^in  time.'' 

With  quiet  footsteps  they  went  down  the  hallway. 
Doyt  called  her  Aunt  outside  and  presented  her  to 
Lawrence.     Together  they  entered  the  sick  room. 

The  sick  room — that  place  of  dim  light,  unruffled 
sounds  and  significant  silence — the  place  with  the  se- 
cret mysterious  atmosphere,  where  men  and  women 
appalled,  awe-stricken,  heart-broken  sit  wdth  a  sense 
of  frenzied  helplessness  and  await  the  mysterious,  in- 
explicable change. 

With  a  feeling  of  apprehension  he  entered  the  room. 

The  fragrant  night  air  came  softly  in  through  the 
open  window,  gently  swaying  the  white  curtain  which 
hung  before  it.     The  fire  lay  in  bright  coals  on  the 


270  A.S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

hearth.  Near  the  center  of  the  room  stood  the  snowy 
bed.  With  keenest  anxiety  he  went  across  and  stood 
beside  it.  He  bent  over  his  brother's  child  and  studied 
the  delicate  features  of  the  strained,  pallid  face;  the 
deep,  soft  eyes  with  their  long,  dark  lashes  were  raised 
to  his  and  with  thick  voice  he  spoke  endearing  words. 

With  a  physician's  instinct  he  saw  there  was  need 
of  quick  action,  and  instinctively  he  buried  the  inter- 
est of  kinship  in  that  of  the  scientist.  He  bent  his 
head  to  its  breast  and  listened  to  its  breathing  and  to 
the  heart  action;  he  felt  the  quick  pulse,  he  took  the 
temperature,  he  examined  the  bottles  that  contained 
the  medicines,  tested  them;  he  sent  Dorcas  out  of  the 
room  and  questioned  into  the  history  of  the  case.  He 
asked  when  the  doctor  in  charge  would  return. 

n  the  symptoms  grew  alarmingly  worse  he  was  to 
be  sent  for  during  the  night,  otherwise  he  would  not 
return  till  morning. 

He  studied  a  moment  on  the  case;  the  symptoms 
were  those  with  which  he  was  familiar  and  his  interest 
grew. 

A  discriminating  knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  the 
human  system,  which  he  had  gained  by  long  continued 
medical  study,  was  of  use  to  him  now.  He  felt  proud 
of  his  profession  and  here  he  was  in  a  position  to  dem- 
onstrate its  resources.  He  had  been  trained  to  act 
in  emergencies,  and  here  was  need.  He  felt  thankful 
for  every  item  of  information  he  had  gained  in  regard 
to  the  human  frame;  for  what  scapel  and  probe  and 
dissecting  knife  and  microscope  and  clinical  observa- 
tion had  revealed;  for  what  treatise  and  lecture  and 
hospital  work  had  unfolded  to  him  of  disease;  for 
every  hour  of  study  he  had  given  to  materia  medica, 
therapeutics  and  pathology.  He  was  gjateful  to  his 
medical  Alma  Mater  for  having  put  him  in  possession 
of  the  most  modern  methods  of  combatting  disease,  as 
this  knowledge  might  now  be  used  in  saving  his  broth- 
er's child. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIFE.  271 

The  young  mother  stood  a  few  steps  away,  her  soft 
hands  dasped  together,  her  fair,  pathetic  face  study- 
ing his,  hungrily  watching  his  every  movement,  scarce- 
ly daring  to  hope,  and  bracing  herself  to  bear  the 
worst. 

As  he  glanced  toward  her  now  and  then,  it  seemed 
to  him  if  ho  had  no  other  interest  it  would  be  worth 
the  labor  of  a  lifetime  of  study  to  be  able  to  bring 
relief  to  this  girl  mother's  heart. 

Then  urged  by  the  need,  with  an  almost  confident 
air,  he  stepped  to  her  side  and  said  circumspectly: 

"Could  you  trust  me  to  treat  the  case?" 

She  clutched  his  arm  and  with  low,  trembling  voice, 
said: 

''Do  you  think  you  can  save  him?'^ 

Her  fair  features  were  white  and  colorless. 

He  looked  earnestly  into  her  pleading  face  and  said 
slowly: 

"AYould  to  Heaven  that  I  could  promise  you." 

A  strange  light  was  shining  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 
He  knew  he  had  to  work  in  the  helplessness  of  human 
strength  against  elusive  antagonistic  forces.  With  a 
man's  honest  faith  in  his  own  skill,  he  added  quietly: 

"I  will  do  what  can  be  done." 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  gratitude. 

In  the  possession  of  solid  nerves,  unlimited  courage, 
and  realizing  vividly  the  conditions  he  set  to  work. 

He  wrote  a  prescription  and  Dorcas  dispatched  a 
messenger  with  it  to  the  town. 

He  took  his  position  in  the  sick-room.  After  mid- 
night Dorcas  lay  down  and  he  and  the  mother,  who 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave,  remained  as  nurses 
through  the  night. 

He  felt  confident  he  had  made  a  discovery  of  a  path- 
ological condition  that  the  old  doctor  had  overlooked. 
Eesolved  to  fully  utilize  this  information,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  concentration  of  his  whole  career  lay 


272  ^^'Sf  GOD  MADE  EER. 

in  that  one  case,  and  if  he  never  did  anything  more, 
it  would  satisfy  him  to  save  this  one  life. 

During  the  night,  save  as  he  directed  in  the  care  of 
the  child,  they  spoke  seldom. 

She  often  stood  gravely  and  anxiously  over  the  little 
bed  and  ran  her  fingers  through  the  silken  hair  and 
pressed  her  lips  softly  to  his  fevered  cheek.  The 
house  was  hushed;  the  clock  ticked  evenly  on,  and  as 
they  watched,  with  increasing  anxiety  neither  seemed 
to  feel  fatigued. 

He  went  often  to  the  door  and  looked  out  on  the 
darkened  landscape,  while  the  air  from  outside  came 
floating  into  the  room,  ladened  with  the  perfume  of 
flowers  and  fresh  with  the  odor  of  the  evergreens. 
The  wind  moved  softly  the  tree  tops;  the  thick  mist 
hid  the  stars,  while  the  light  from  the  room  fell  upon 
the  green  sward. 

All  the  night  her  eyes  were  watching  him  with  timid 
questioning  and  yearning  appeal. 

There  was  so  little  that  she  could  do.  The  time  for 
intense  strained  effort  was  over.  She  felt  the  bitterest 
reproach  every  time  the  child  eyes,  in  guileless  trust, 
were  raised  to  hers. 

He  must  die  and  all  the  love  and  sympathy  she  could 
give  him  in  the  few  hours  left  could  not  atone  for  the 
months  of  neglect. 

The  hours  moved  leisurely  on;  she  still  watched  the 
clock  closely.  She  seemed  to  count  the  minutes  and  as 
each  one  passed  it  seemed  to  put  farther  away  the 
dread  and  to  bring  nearer  the  dawn. 

At  last  the  pallid  light  came  in  at  the  window — the 
herald  of  the  dawn. 

She  had  waited  for  it  with  such  eagerness,  and  now 
she  waited  still  till  the  light  grew  to  a  rosy  hue  and 
the  full  day  was  at  hand. 

She  had  made  such  effort  to  prepare  herself,  for  she 
knew  that  the  old  doctor  had  felt  that  the  child  could 
not  possibly  live  beyond  the  midnight. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  273 

When  the  glorious  sunlight,  fully  and  freely,  came 
streaming  into  the  room,  she  rose  from  her  seat  by  the 
bed  where  the  boy  was  resting  and  went  over  to  where 
Lawrence  stood  on  the  hearthrug. 

To  him,  through  the  night,  every  glance  that  she 
had  cast  at  him  had  been  full  of  unuttered  pleading, 
and  now  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  in  measured 
voice,  she  said: 

"The  dreadful  night  is  past.     Will  he  live?" 

He  waited  only  for  a  moment: 

"If  I  had  been  certain,  I  should  before  now  have 
relieved  your  suspense.     I  should  have  told  you." 

Then  looking  into  her  upturned  eyes,  he  said: 

"The  case  is  still  doubtful,  but  there  is  a  hope." 

After  all  the  agony,  one  sweet  gleam  of  joy! 

She  remained  in  the  room.  She  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  spare  herself  till  all  danger  was  past. 
Tremblingly  she  waited,  scarce  daring  to  trust.  Was 
the  storm  over  at  last,  or  was  this  only  a  lull? 

Doyt  slowly  and  timidly  accepted  the  situation.  At 
length  her  feverish  apprehension  began  to  change  to 
hope.     As  her  eyes  brightened  she  asked  herself: 

"Could  it  be  possible  that  she  was  going  to  escape 
the  agony  that  she  had  deemed  inevitable — that  on  the 
very  verge  of  destruction  she  had  been  rescued?" 

Once  during  the  early  morning  after  Dorcas  had 
returned  to  the  sick  room,  she  went  with  Lawrence  to 
the  open  door  and  out  into  the  sweet  clear  day. 

The  gray  enveloping  mist  of  the  night  had  faded 
away  with  the  sunrise  and  the  morning  was  dewy  and 
fresh. 

Close  by  were  the  rich  gorgeous  growths  of  tropical 
trees  and  the  splendid  dignity  of  the  oaks,  while  over 
their  heads  stretched  great  massive  cables  of  roses  ly- 
ing like  wreaths  upon  the  trellis. 

Outside  lay  the   orchards,  now   softly  unsheathing 
their  dainty  buds  of  pink  and  white  till  looking  out 
upon  the  scene  the  whole  world  seemed  abloom.     Be- 
18 


274  ^-Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

yond  stretched  the  sun-bathed  valley,  flanked  on  either 
side  by  the  forest-topped  liills  and  the  majestic  moun- 
tains. 

Lawrence  had  received  only  a  vague  impression  of 
the  grounds  from  having  walked  through  them  the 
night  before,  and  he  was  anxious  for  the  revelation  of 
beauty  which  he  knew  the  morning  would  bring. 

The  place  where  his  brother  had  lived  was  sacred  to 
him.  Besides,  he  loved  his  native  state,  and  his  senses 
were  on  the  alert  for  its  attractions,  but  here  before 
him  lay  a  view  that  he  had  not  dreamed  of.  Never 
before  had  a  morning  seemed  so  deliciously  glad  nor 
the  earth  anywhere  so  like  an  Eden. 

His  handsome  face  was  all  aglow^  and  he  spoke  with 
boyish  fervor  as  he  said: 

''It  seems  good  to  inflate  the  lungs  again  with  Cali- 
fornia air.^' 

He  looked  all  about  him  in  delighted  wonder. 
There  was  a  tense  vibration  in  his  voice  as  he  contin- 
ued: 

''All  the  while  I  was  gone  1  had  a  feeling  that  I  had 
been  banished  from  the  sphere  where  I  belonged;  but 
"wdth  all  my  highest  anticipations  I  hardly  expected  to 
return  to  a  place  of  such  enchantment  as  this." 

There  w^as  a  deep  significance  in  the  words  he  added: 

"If  I  had  realized  the  attraction  here,  I  could  hardly 
have  schooled  myself  to  remain  away  for  so  many 
years." 

Doyt  breathed  in  the  sweet  air  and  looked  up  into 
the  soft  blue  sky  and  seemed  to  suddenly  awaken  again 
to  the  beauty  of  the  world  and  to  the  joy  of  living. 

As  she  looked  back  on  her  life  for  the  past  year  it 
seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had  been  in  prison  or 
dead. 

What  to  her  had  been  the  growth  of  the  plants  or 
the  exuberant  blossoming  of  the  flowers,  the  glimmer- 
ing of  the  stars,  the  tinting  of  the  sky,  the  richness  of 
the  foliage,  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  ?     She  had  been 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  275 

of  Jate  so  out  of  harmony  with  it  all;  her  life  had  been 
tuned  so  long  to  a  minor  strain;  she  had  so  lost  her 
kinship  with  nature  that  she  had  almost  ceased  to  be 
God's  child.  Under  the  stress  of  suspense  she  had 
overlooked  it  all,  yet  through  all  her  heedlessness 
there  had  been  no  cessation  of  nature's  growth  and 
loveliness.  Though  she  had  forgotten  to  thank  God 
for  them,  He  had  not  withdrawn  his  bountiful  gifts. 

The  broad  leaves  of  a  fan  palm  near  by  swayed  back 
and  forth  in  the  soft  breeze,  the  grass  at  her  feet 
freshened  by  the  mists  of  the  night,  sparkled  with  an 
emerald  greenness. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  handsome  face  of 
the  man  beside  her,  she  felt  that  it  was  to  him  that 
she  owed  her  awakening.  But  for  him  she  thought 
sadly,  the  world  would  have  been  empty  to  her  now; 
but  for  him  the  flowers  might  have  bloomed,  the  birds 
have  sung,  the  sun  have  shone  but  she  would  have  car- 
ried her  bitter  sorrow  to  the  end.  To  her,  then,  would 
have  been  neither  brightness  nor  music  nor  light  nor 
sunshine,  for  Gerald  would  have  been  gone. 

She  looked  out  across  the  whitened  orchards- — she 
raised  her  eyes  a  moment  to  the  soft  blue  sky,  then 
turning  to  him  she  said  contritely: 

"I  haven't  noticed  it  at  all  of  late,  but  I  see  the  lov- 
liness  of  the  world  again  now." 

A  smile  lit  up  her  classic  face  as  she  softly  added: 

"I  owe  it  all  to  you." 

She  raised  up  one  hand  to  the  rose  strand  above  her 
head  and  its  pink  petals  fell  and  rested  amidst  the 
sunny  meshes  of  her  hair. 

"If  you  had  been  a  day  or  even  an  hour  later,"  she 
added — she  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  •  There  was  a 
convulsive  clasping  of  her  hands — and  trembling,  she 
stepped  back  as  though  she  stood  at  the  edge  of  some 
dizzy  depth. 

Lawrence  felt  at  a  loss  to  know  just  what  to  say, 
and  with  blundering  hesitation,  he  answered: 


276  ^"^^  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"It  was  the  only  assistance  I  was  capable  of  render- 
ing you." 

And  when  he  had  gained  better  possession  of  him- 
self, he  added:  ■ 

"At  any  rate,  do  not  magnify  my  powers  nor  your 
obligation.  The  child  is  safe  now;  that  is  enough  to 
give  zest  to  your  enjoyment  of  the  morning." 

As  he  watched  it  he  saw  that  the  fair  face  of  his  com- 
panion was  slowly  relaxing,  that  a  new  light  was  grad- 
ually coming  into  her  lustrous  eyes.  With  pleasure  he 
noted  that,  given  the  opportunity,  her  youth  would 
promptly  assert  itself.  Taking  a  step  nearer  to  her, 
with  earnestness  and  courtesy  he  added: 

"To  see  the  smile  on  your  face  again  is  a  reward  for 
my  service." 

The  rest  and  peace  born  of  such  agony  is  worth  the 
suffering  it  costs. 

Just  as  she  had  prepared  herself  for  the  renuncia- 
tion of  all  joy  in  life.  Heaven  seemed  open  to  her.  On 
the  very  verge  of  destruction  it  seemed  she  had  been 
rescued. 

Half  bewildered  she  heard  his  words  and  slowly  and 
timidly  she  accepted  the  situation. 

"The  boy  was  safe" — he  had  said  it.  Was  there  ever 
such  music  in  the  human  voice?  Were  ever  words  of 
sweeter  meaning  spoken? 

The  deep  feeling  that  possessed  her  choked  her  ut- 
terance, but  she  raised  her  glad  eyes  to  her  companion 
with  a  feeling  that  was  almost  veneration. 

Why  was  it?  From  the  hour  of  his  arrival,  the 
very  atmosphere  of  the  place  had  changed.  Was  it  his 
skill,  or  their  faith  in  it,  or  was  it  the  divided  respon- 
sibility— or  was.it  that  his  own  sanguine  forceful  ener- 
getic life  had  infused  itself  into  her  and  Dorcas? 

Under  his  attentive  care  the  racking  pain  became 
slowly  alleviated;  the  blood  that  was  rushing  at  such 
speed  through  the  tiny  arteries,  wearing  out  the  deli- 
cate machinery,  gradually    was    checked.     The    over- 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  277 

taxed  organs  resumed  their  functions,  the  little  burn- 
ing hands  grew  moist,  the  flickering,  wavering  pulse 
became  equable,  the  fluttering  breath  methodical,  and 
bef(yre  noontime  the  little,  tortured  frame  had  found 
respite  and  the  babe  lay  in  a  placid  sleep. 


278  ^S  (^OD  MADE  HER, 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Placidly  and  quietly  the  days  passed  at  Oaklawn. 

Dr.  Lawrence  remained  in  close  attendance  upon  the 
child  for  ten  days  and  then  returned  to  his  quarters  at 
the  hotel. 

Both  Dorcas  and  the  mother  seemed  warranted  in 
the  conclusion  that  the  only  way  to  insure  the  little 
patient^s  continued  safety  was  to  have  the  physician 
who  had  saved  him  remain  within  call. 

As  the  services  of  a  skillful  practitioner  was  in  de- 
mand in  that  community,  Dorcas  proposed  to  him  that 
he  should  open  an  office  in  the  adjacent  town. 

When  the  young  physician  gave  the  subject  some 
attention,  he  found  that  his  inclinations  seemed  to  lie 
in  the  same  direction.  As  he  did  not  seem  to  think  it 
worth  while  to  combat  his  impulses,  he  accepted  the 
suggestions. 

Before  many  weeks  elapsed  he  found  himself  an  es- 
tablished physician  there  and  his  time  quite  well  oc- 
cupied. 

There  was  not  a  day,  however,  that  he  did  not  visit 
Oaklawn. 

When  his  little  patient  was  sufficiently  recovered,  he 
often  took  his  slight  form  in  his  own  strong  arms  and 
walked  with  him  about  the  grounds,  or  down  along  the 
driveway  among  the  waving  palms.  Sometimes  he  sat 
quietly  by  the  sweet  gentle  child  till  he  fell  asleep  in 
the  warm  sunshine. 

Gradually  the  strength  came  back  to  the  little,  thin, 
limbs.  He  could  not  yet  stand  quite  erect,  but  with 
assistance  could  walk  slowly  up  and  down  the  paths. 
The    little    weary    face    gradually  brightened  and  the 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  27d 

eyes  took  on  a  deeper  hue,  and  the  roundness  and  color 
came  back  to  the  wan  cheeks. 

One  evening  the  doctor  and  Doyt  were  seated  on  tlie 
cool  veranda.  Gerald  was  reclining  on  his  little  in- 
valid chair,  which  had  been  wheeled  out  on  the  green 
lawn.  His  sweet,  merry  laugh  would  ring  in  echoes 
as  Tim,  willing  to  do  anything  suggested  or  ordered, 
was  outrivaling  himself  in  inventing  amusement  for 
the  occasion. 

The  helpless  child  showed  such  admiration  for 
movement,  animation,  and  activity  that  Tim  raptur- 
ously and  boisterously  bounded  and  turned  somersaults 
over  the  green  to  Gerald^s  great  delight. 

Doyt  sat  looking  at  the  children  and  studying  the 
picture  they  made  together  in  the  evening  twilight. 

Tim,  with  the  use  of  every  nerve,  muscle,  and  ten- 
don, with  happy  life  tingling  in  every  fiber  of  his  be- 
ing, in  unhampered  freedom,  moving  without  fatigue 
or  pain.  There,  in  notable  contrast,  her  own  little 
boy,  hindered  from  spinal  weakness,  was  bereft  of 
activity. 

As  she  watched,  there  was  something  so  touching  in 
his  forced  inaction  and  in  his  quiescence,  and  equally 
pitiful  was  his  fortitude  under  privation.  In  spite  of 
all  that  was  denied  him  there  was  a  pleasurable  light 
in  his  soft  eyes.  When  she  heard  his  child  voice  ring 
out  in  sunny  laughter  the  great  tears  coursed  down 
her  cheeks,  and  she  turned  from  him  and  rested  her 
gaze  on  the  forest-topped  mountains  that  lay  outlined 
against  the  western  sky. 

Lawrence  seemed  to  comprehend  her  thoughts.  He 
arose  from  his  seat  beside  her  and  walked  down 
through  the  grounds  as  far  as  the  large  magnolia  tree 
and  when  he  came  back  he  carried  one  of  its  waxen 
blossoms  in  his  hand.  He  stood  a  moment  before  her 
as  she  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  making  a 
smiling  effort  to  conceal  her  sorrow,  when  her  eyes 
were  drawn  involuntarily  to  his. 


280  ^^  G^D  MADE  HER. 

There  was  a  look  of  decision  and  earnestness  in  his 
strong  face  as  he  spoke: 

"Doyt/'  he  said,  "has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
Gerald  need  not  always  be  helpless  and  enfeebled? 
His  form  may  be  molded  to  strength  and  shape;  his 
little  life  may  not  always  be  pathetic  and  appealing." 
There  was  such  fervent  feeling  in  what  he  said;  the 
tone  he  used  was  one  of  such  unutterable  kindness; 
and  she  was  the  more  touched  in  that  it  told  so  plainly 
of  the  strong  man^s  aifection  for  the  afflicted  child. 

Was  there  really  a  way  for  the  boy  out  of  his  im- 
prisoned helplessness?  How  the  hope  of  it  had 
haunted  her  brain!  How  her  heart  bounded  now  as 
she  heard  his  words  and  realized  their  import!  How 
attentively  she  listened,  as  he  talked  on!  How  her 
courage  grew  and  her  hope  kindled,  and  what  glad 
emotions  filled  her  soul! 

With  Lawrence  the  plan  was  not  a  new  one.  Day 
by  day  he  had  been  studying  the  case.  He  had  made 
frequent  examinations  of  the  child's  body  and  had 
come  to  the  conclusion,  after  exhausting  everything  in 
medical  literature,  bearing  upon  the  subject,  that  the 
careful  application  of  modern  medical  appliances  could 
effect  a  complete  cure. 

At  the  thought  of  such  a  possibility  for  the  child, 
Doyt's  face,  that  she  lifted  to  greet  Dorcas,  when  she 
joined  them,  was  almost  a  transfiguration. 

They  all  sat  there  together  in  the  sweet  air  of  the 
twilight  till  the  flowers  folded  their  petals  for  sleep, 
and  the  distant  mountain-tops  were  lost  to  view  and 
the  great  moon  came  creeping  up  through  the  tree 
tops  in  all  her  silver  splendor.. 

When  they  arose  Lawrence  went  down  the  steps  and 
stooped  and  lifted  the  child  from  his  chair  tenderly  in . 
his  arms  and  carried  him  into  the  house. 

When  the  girl  mother  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep  that 
night  a  tumult  of  happiness  was  surging  within  her. 
Her  child  had  been  born  perfect;  there  had  been  no 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  281 

fault  in  God's  handiwork.  The  little  life  was  to  as- 
sume its  natural  course  again.  The  impulse  given  it, 
at  creation,  was  to  have  its  unhindered  fulfillment. 

The  next  day  began  the  surgical  treatment  for  the 
spinal  weakness  of  Gerald.  With  a  supporting  plaster 
of  paris  cast  for  the  spinal  column  and  daily  suspen- 
sion, supplemented  with  tonics,  the  deformity  in  time 
yielded,  and  it  was  only  a  few  months  before  Gerald 
was  again  physically  perfect. 

After  Gerald  had  recovered  there  was  no  occasion 
for  Lawrence  to  go  so  often  to  Oaklawn. 

One  day,  after  almost  a  weeks'  absence,  he  decided 
to  surprise  them  with  a  call.  He  knew  that  Dorcas 
would  welcome  him  and  that  Gerald  would  be  glad 
that  he  had  come,  but  it  was  of  another  subject  he  was 
thinking. 

He  drove  slowly  up  the  avenue  to  the  house.  He 
learned  that  Doyt  had  gone  walking  in  the  grounds. 
As  he  drew  near  the  great  oak,  he  saw  her  sitting  un- 
derneath and  Gerald  was  by  her  side. 

She  wore  a  soft  lavender  gown  with  ribbon  sash  of 
the  same  hue  and  black  lace  at  the  armholes.  Never 
could  dress  suit  better  an  artist's  taste  nor  accord  more 
perfectly  with  her  faultless  form. 

As  she  sat  in  her  great  beauty  a  shaft  of  .sunlight 
came  through  the  thick  leaves  above  and  touched  to 
gold  the  soft  waves  of  her  hair.  Her  long  lashes  were 
cast  downward;  her  face  was  peaceful  and  its  happy 
expression  gave  an  intensity  to  her  loveliness. 

The  boy  was  standing  before  her,  his  rounded  elbows 
leaning  upon  her  lap,  gay  with  returning  buoyant  life, 
and  chattering  almost  unceasingly. 

Since  he  last  saw  her  he  had  resolved  in  his  mmd 
many  thoughts  of  the  future. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do — to  give  up  his 
practice  here,  to  go  back  to  the  old  German  world  and 
life  again,  where,  removed  from  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
the  influence  of  her  presence,  he  might  perhaps  leam 


082  -^-Sf  GOD  MADE  HER. 

to  forget  that  he  loved  her.  Kesolved  though  he  was 
that  this  must  come,  he  deferred  the  agony,  and  now 
hurried  to  enjoy  the  bliss  of  her  companionship,  while 
he  might,  before  he  was  parted  from  her  forever. 

To  be  where  he  could  look  upon  her,  even  though 
he  was  secondary  in  her  thoughts,  was  such  wealth  of 
enjoyment  as  he  had  never  before  experienced. 

He  stopped  by  the  broad  palm  tree  and  its  wide, 
spreading  branches  partially  hid  him  from  view,  and 
the  strong  man' — independent  of  spirit,  inured  to  en- 
durance and  to  trying  surgical  tasks — found  that  his 
nerves  were  unstrung  and  that  he  was  really  trembling. 
For  once  his  self-control  was  gone.  He  did  not  know 
what  he  should  say  if  he  met  her;  he  felt  that  he  had 
even  lost  power  of  speech,  and  would  have  turned  back 
but  that  Gerald  had  seen  him. 

"0,  Uncle  Lawrence,"  he  called  out,  bounding  to- 
ward him.  "Come  on,  we're  waiting  for  you.  We 
thought  you'd  come." 

Lawrence  took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  held  him 
closely,  murmuring  in  his  ear  words  of  devotion.  He 
came  on,  he  hardly  knew  how,  but  most  anxious  to  ap- 
pear calm  and  possessed. 

Doyt  arose  from  her  seat  there  among  the  waving 
shadows  and  gave  him  her  hand,  while  Gerald,  stand- 
ing by  his  side,  kept  the  other. 

"Gerald  holds  to  your  hand,"  she  said;  "to  be  sure 
that  he  is  not  dreaming  that  you  have  come.  So  busy 
you  are  we  thought  that  you  had  forgotten  us  alto- 
gether." 

He  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  what  she  had  said. 

"Did  her  words  imply  that  it  signified  something  to 
her  whether  he  came  or  not?"  What  comfort  he 
found  in  the  mere  possibility! 

Gerald  was  flitting  about,  moving  timidly,  but  as 
blithe  and  gay  as  a  birdling  only  recently  out  of  its 
nest. 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  283 

Doyt  had  resumed  her  seat.  Lawrence  remained 
standing,  catching  the  little  one  in  his  arms  playfully 
as  now  and  then  he  darted  near. 

If  he  might  only  shut  out  the  dark  future  and  give 
himself  up  completely  to  the  beautiful,  perfect  peace 
of  the  present,  how  happy  would  he  be!  He  was  by 
nature  sincere  and  it  was  only  by  great  effort  that  he 
could  assume  a  part. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  remain  when  I  came/'  he  said. 
"Something,  Doyt,  that  I  cannot  explain  has  prompted 
me  to  come  to-day.'^ 

He  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the  bench  farthest  from 
her.  Gerald  had  stopped  his  play  to  listen.  Lawrence 
had  not  spoken  in  his  wonted  tone  and  there  was  a 
stiffness  in  his  manner  that  the  child  did  not  compre- 
hend, accustomed  as  he  was  to  his  handsome  uncle's 
imperturbable  cheeriness.  He  said  not  a  word  but 
climbed  up  on  the  seat  and  nestled  down  close  beside 
the  great,  strong  man. 

Lawrence  spoke  with  some  abruptness.     He  said: 

"I  came  to  thank  you,  Doyt,  for  your  kindness  to 
me  here,  and"  he  went  on  cautiously,  ^^and  to  tell  you 
of  my  regret  at  leaving  this  place." 

He  held  control  of  his  voice,  but  to  him  the  thought 
was  like  being  shut  out  of  Heaven. 

Without  a  word  she  cast  a  look  of  inquiry  into  his 
face,  then  her  head  dropped  quickly  and  she  sat  look- 
ing at  the  white,  clasped  hands  that  lay  in  her  lap. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes  the  child  was  caressing  his 
uncle. 

"You  have  said  nothing  about  it,"  she  said  quietly. 
"I  did  not  know  you  were  making  preparations  for 
such  a  change." 

She  had  hard  task  to  control  her  voice,  as  she  added: 

"It  is  a  surprise  to  me." 

Till  now  she  had  never  fully  realized  how  much  he 
had  brought  to  her.  His  presence  had  made  the  place 
seem  like  home  again,  and  now  he  was  going  away  and 


284  ^^  ^^^  MADE  HER. 

she  was  to  be  left  to  the  old  desolation.  The  thought 
of  his  going  away  out  of  her  life  and  out  of  Gerald's 
chilled  her  blood. 

It  was  as  though  the  frost  and  snows  of  New  Eng- 
land lay  upon  Oaklawn  and  the  thick  storm-clouds  had 
blotted  out  the  sun. 

As  he  sat  holding  Gerald's  hand  and  caressing  it, 
she  spoke  again: 

"I  thought  you  were  doing  well  here,  Lawrence.  My 
father's  people  and  Lowell's  will  be  disappointed,"  and 
she  looked  inquiringly  into  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  am  doing  well,"  he  answered  and  he  was  sur- 
prised at  his  own  composure.  "I  have  a  rather  strong- 
hold on  the  people,  I  think,  but  that  is  because  of  the 
love  they  have  for  your  father  and  Lowell.  My  prac- 
tice is  growing,  T  am  doing  quite  well — ^l^etter,  I  think 
than  I  can  do  at  any  other  place.  That  is  not  the 
reason  I  go." 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  reason?"  she  modestly  asked. 

She  was  silently  wondering  if  she  had  been  in  any 
way  to  blame.  Then  the  thought  came  that  had  al- 
ways been  Kaunting  her;  the  realization  that  she  had 
never  in  any  adequate  way  made  known  her  obligation 
and  gratitude  to  him;  that  the  poor,  weak  words  she 
had  tried  to  make  use  of  had  completely  failed  in  their 
import. 

He  showed  his  agitation.  He  had  risen  and  stood 
beside  the  boy,  whom  he  had  lifted  to  his  feet  upon 
the  bench.  How  he  was  tempted,  as  he  looked  at  her, 
to  speak,  to  pour  out  the  torrent  of  words  struggling 
for  utterance!  His  feeling  was  strong,  but  he  did  not 
let  it  master  him. 

"I  cannot  tell,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  I  may  never  tell 
any  human  being  why  I  go.  It  will  be  better  for  me, 
Doyt,"  he  said  sadly  ^^etter,  when  I  shall  be  far  away; 
better  when  the  broad  ocean  rolls  between  me  and  this 
place.'*' 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  285 

Her  amazed  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face,  and  she 
said  humbly: 

''1  have  not  seen  much  of  the  outside  world,  bnt  I 
thought  you  found  it  pleasant  here/' 

"And  so  I  have/'  he  said  quickly;  then  added  almost 
despairingly,  as  he  looked  around: 

"How  could  I  help  hut  he  happy  in  such  a  treasure 
of  a  place  as  this?"  •         - 

There  was  a  crackling  of  the  gravel  on  the  path  as 
Dorcas  came  driving  along  the  side  roadway,  calling  to 
Gerald  to  come  with  her  for  a  ride.  In  her  hand  she 
held  his  little  cap  and  coat. 

"Yes,  go,  Gerald,"  Doyt  said  as  the  little  one  hesi- 
tated. Then  he  walked  soberly  away.  The  mother's 
whole  heart  seemed  to  be  in  her  eyes  as  they  followed 
hiui. 

"I  should  not  have  talked  in  the  way  I  have  before 
him — I  have  made  the  child  unhappy.  Forgive  me, 
Doyt,  it  was  cruel  and  I  regret  it." 

"Unhappy  for  a  half  hour — for  an  afternoon — 
what's  that  Lawrence?"  Her  whole  soul  was  in  her 
voice  now.  "He  depends  upon  you.  He  needs  you;  if 
you  go  away,  he  will  be  unhappy  for  a  lifetime."  , 

"I  have  made  a  mistake,  Doyt,  in  coming  here  at  all. 
1  should  have  remained  in  Germany.  I  cannot  under- 
stand why  I  wanted  to  come.  Though  I  knew  that  my 
father  and  mother  were  gone,  that  my  only  brother 
had  followed  them — though  I  knew  that  not  one  rela- 
tive that  I  had  ever  seen  awaited  me,  my  heart  leaped 
at  the  thought  of  coming  home.  At  last  I  reached  my 
native  shore  and  still  three  thousand  miles  lay  between 
me  and  the  place  of  my  birth.  A  strange  joy,  I  re- 
member, still  inspired  me  and  I  hastened  on.  As  we 
came  nearer,  I  said:  Another  day  passed,  another  state 
crossed.  Doyt, all  I  had  left  here,  I  found  in  the  grave- 
yard. With  an  aching  heart,  but  catching  at  some  tie 
to  bind  me  to  the  world,  I  sought  your  child."  Law- 
rence looked  after  him,  as  waving  them  adieu,  he  dis- 


286  ^*^'  (^^^^  MADE  HER. 

appeared  down  the  avenue.  "The  little  trusting  soul/^ 
he  said,  and  there  was  strong  emotion  in  his  voice: 
"Aye,  there's  the  rub,  Doyt,  leaving  him." 

Then  as  though  betraying  his  mind  too  much,  he 
continued: 

"But  he  is  getting  strong  and  well  now.  He  doesn't 
need  me.'' 

He  arose  and  looked  away,  then  turning  toward  her 
he  broke  out  almost  despairingly: 

"I  sometimes  wish  he  did.  It  is  such  a  joy  to  think, 
plan,  study,  work,  strive,  save  for  his  sake.  Pardon 
my  weakness,  Doyt,  but  I  have  often  wished  that  the 
devotion  of  others  had  not  left  you  so  well  supplied; 
that  you  did  not  own  this  handsome  estate,  so  that  I 
might  have  an  opportunity  to  exert  my  sinewy  strength 
for  my  brother's  wife  and  child.  Then  I  should  have 
an  object  in  life;  then,  though  I  had  to  remain  six 
thousand  miles  away  from  you,  I  should  have  some- 
thing to  live  for.  Outside  this  place  I  have  no  kin- 
dred. Of  my  own  blood,  among  all  the  millions  on 
the  wide  earth,  I  have  only  little  Gerald." 

There  was  a  touching  pathos  in  his  mellow  voice  as 
he  added  bitterly: 

"And  he  doesn't  need  me." 

A  fresh,  fragrant  breeze  went  floating  by,  the 
shadows  made  by  the  oak  leaves  flickered  on  the  grass, 
the  satin  smooth  leaves  of  the  magnolia,  which  stood 
near,  moved  to  and  fro;  a  bird  perched  upon  a  bending 
bough  poured  forth  a  string  of  melody  and  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  by  these  touches  of  nature,  his  soul 
was  soothed. 

"l)oyt,  I  don't  know  why  I  have  talked  to  you  as  I 
have  this  afternoon.  I  probably  am  as  much  surprised 
at  myself  as  you  are,  but  perhaps  it  is  best  that  I  have 
shown  to  you  my  weakness.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  in 
the  hands  of  fate.  If  I  were  not  forced  to  go  from 
here,  I  could  think  happier  thoughts  and  talk  of  hap- 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  287 

pier  things.  I  have  never  before  shown  to  you  my 
true  self.     You  know  me  now.'^ 

The  girl  felt  that  she  had  known  him  before;  that 
what  she  had  just  learned  of  his  nature  had  only  in- 
tensified her  knowledge  of  him.  In  the  months  that 
she  had  been  near  him  she  had  often  caught  glimpses 
of  the  kind  soul  that  he  possessed.  She  had  felt  the 
nobility  of  his  nature  in  the  gentle  sympathy  extended 
to  her  in  her  suffering  and  his  earnest  effort  to  relieve 
it.  No  matter  how  wretched  and  scanty  his  life  after- 
ward was  to  be,  he  was  near  her  now,  and  there  was 
wealth  in  the  present. 

When  Dorcas  and  Gerald  returned,  the  child,  study- 
ing his  uncle's  face  found  its  general  expression  re- 
turned again. 

Being  stoutly  urged,  and  feeling  dissatisfied  with 
himself  and  strongly  desirous  of  putting  himself  on  a 
better  footing  again,  Lawrence  remained  and  took  din- 
ner with  the  family.  Though  he  was  not  for  a  mo- 
ment oblivious  to  the  menace  the  future  held  for  him, 
yet  he  had  sufficient  control  of  himself  to  repress  any 
manifestation  of  it  for  the  remainder  of  the  after- 
noon. 


288  ^**^'  ^^^D   MADE   HEli. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

One  day  Lawrence  going  to  Oaklawn  met  Dorcas 
alone.  She  was  out  in  the  garden.  As  he  came  up 
she  noticed  that  he  looked  pale  and  distracted.  When 
she  took  his  hand^  in  her  hearty,  cordial  way,  it  was 
with  an  indefinite  dread  possessing  her  that  she  said 
to  him: 

"Is  it  true  that  yon  are  going  away,  Lawrence?" 

The  yonng  man  started. 

'•And  how  did  you  know  that  I  had  thought  of  it. 
Aunt  Dorcas?" 

He  waited  anxiously  for  her  answer.  He  felt  for 
Doyt  to  mention  it  was  in  a  way  to  consent  to  his 
going. 

Dorcas  stooped  and  picked  a  La  France  rose  from 
its  stem.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  twirling  the 
rose  in  her  hand,  she  said  quietly: 

"It  was  Doyt  who  told  me." 

A  pause  ensued. 

As  Lawrence  did  not  deny  that  it  was  his  intention 
lo  go,  she  said  again: 

"It  is  not  generally  known  that  you  think  of  going, 
is  it?  It  will  be  such  a  disappointment  to  the  people 
for  you  to  leave  your  place  here,  just  as  you  have  be- 
come so  well  established." 

Dorcas  was  devoted  to  Lawrence,  almost  as  in  the 
olden  days  she  had  been  to  his  brother.  During  her 
acquaintance  with  him  she  had  not  failed  to  take 
cognizance  of  the  young  man's  traits  of  character. 
She  had  full  appreciation  for  his  strength,  his  alert 
faculties,  self-reliance,  his  open-heartedness,  and  irre- 
proachable honor.  She  was  averse  to  parting  with 
him;  besides,  the  very  thought  of  his  leaving  opened 


.4   STORY  OF  CALIFORXIA  LIFE.  9 §9 

Aunt  Dorcas'  mind  to  new  anxieties  in  regard  to  the 
home-place  and  the  husiness  connected  with  it. 
Though  the  estate  3^iekled  a  satisfactory  income,  it 
was  cumbrous  of  management.  She  feared  that  if  it 
were  left  entirely  to  woman's  handling  it  might  he- 
come  unprofitable.  For  these  reasons,  as  well  as 
other,  Dorcas  was  not  ready  to  let  Lawrence  leave  them 
without  making  an  effort  to  detain  him. 

Lawrence  answered  her: 

"So  far  I  believe  I  have  spoken  of  it  to  only  one 
person." 

He  turned  his  flushed  face  toward  his  companion 
and  in  an  agitated  manner  went  on: 

"I  know  you  recommended  me,  Aunt  Dorcas,  and 
you  expected  me  to  be  stable  and  remain,  and  did  not 
look  for  me  to  abandon  my  patients  just  as  I  had  well 
secured  them.  I  compromise  you  by  doing  so,  and  I 
regret  it,"  he  said  sadly. 

Before  she  could  speak,  he  went  on: 

"When  I  came  home  I  had  such  love  of  my  profes- 
sion and  was  so  full  of  hope  and  ambition,  I  felt 
capable  of  an  unlimited  amount  of  hard  work.  I  sup- 
pose I  might  succeed  professionally  here  to  my  heart's 
content,  but  there's  only  one  way  left  to  me,  Aunt 
Dorcas;  fate  has  willed  that  I  leave  you." 

The  manner  with  which  he  made  the  assertion  car- 
ried with  it  great  impressiveness,  and  Dorcas  exper- 
ienced a  feeling  of  deepest  sympathy,  though  of  the 
nature  of  the  trouble  at  which  he  had  hinted,  she  had 
only  a  very  indefinite  idea. 

Dorcas  livstened  perplexedly  for  further  informa- 
tion, and  presently  Lawrence  continued: 

"I  had  determined  to  go  away  quietly,  to  hide  every 
trace  of  how  I  feel  about  going.  I  was  even  congratu- 
lating myself  that  I  was  able  to  hide  it  when  I  wan- 
dered over  here  the  other  afternoon  and  I  came  across 
Doyt  and  Gerald  sitting  there  under  the  old  oak  tree." 

His  eyes  brightened,  as  he  said: 
19 


290  ^S  GOD  MADE  HER. 

"They  make  a  wonderful  pair  now,  Aunt  Dorcas." 

He  continued  his  story  meditatively: 

"There  they  sat  with  the  flickering  sunshine  about 
them  and  the  green  shadows  and  the  gorgeous  wealth 
of  flowers,  making  the  most  restful  picture  human  eyes 
ever  gazed  upon,  and  I — churl  that  I  was — compelled 
by  some  inner  force,  broke  in  upon  the  sweet  quietude. 
I  must  have  been  beside  myself,  for  I  really  fright- 
ened the  boy.^^     He  paused  a  moment. 

"Well,  Lawrence,  I  am  listening  eagerly,  anxiously; 
you  may  as  well  tell  me  what  you  said." 

"In  my  rebellion  against  fate,  I  hardly  know  what 
I  said.  Let  me  see,"  he  said  casting  his  eyes  down- 
ward, "I  told  her  Aunt  Dorcas  that  I  wished  that  she 
and  Gerald  were  poor  so  that  I  could  work  for  them. 
I  ought  not  to  have  said  these  things;  I  did  not  in- 
tend to  say  them.  You  see,''  he  said  with  an  effort  at 
a  smile,  "you  see  I  am  not  sure  of  myself  here,  and 
I  shall  have  to  go  away." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  Doyt  said?" 

"What  did  she  say?  Why,  she  told  me  how  grate- 
ful she  felt  to  me  for  coming  home,  and  how,  because 
Gerald  was  attached  to  me  and  because  he  had  no 
father,  that  even  though  he  wasn't  exactly  poor,  that 
he  did  need  me.  She  told  me" — here  the  strong  man 
turned  and  looked  off  across  the  orchard — "she  told 
me  that  next  to  Lowell,  she  would  train  Gerald  to  re- 
member me  and  reverence  my  memory." 

"Pardon  me,  Lawrence,  but  what  1  want  to  know 
is  how  did  she  take  what  you  said." 

Lawrence  looked  at  her  as  though  he  were  still 
studying  the  case. 

"I  don't  know.  Aunt  Dorcas,  I  don't  know  how  she 
interpreted  it.  You  see.  Aunt  Dorcas,"  he  said  sud- 
denly and  impulsivel}^,  "though  I  did  not  tell  her  so, 
1  may  as  well  be  frank  with  you,  the  truth  is  I  have 
failed  in  all  my  resolutions;  for  in  spite  of  all  my 
manly  determination  to  the  contrary,  I  love  Doyt." 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORXIA  LIFE.  991 

•^Forgive  me,  Lawrence/^  Dorcas  said  tenderly,  "I 
do  not  see  anything  alarming  in  this/^ 

"And  neither  do  I/'  he  returned  quickly.  "I  should 
hardly  be  human  if  I  did  not  love  her,  knowing  her  as 
I  do.  The  trouble  is,  Aunt  Dorcas,  she  doesn't  care 
about  me." 

"But  Lawrence,  in  all  respect  to  both  yourself  and 
Doyt,  I  think  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  she  does  care 
for  you,"  she  said  beguilingly. 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way,"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes  to 
hers,  with  a  look  of  intense  expectation,  "but  you 
know.  Aunt  Dorcas,  cheerful  as  she  is,  she  lives  only 
in  the  happy  past,  she  feels  so  keenly  the  cruelty  of 
Lowell's  being  robbed  of  his  happy  life,  and  Dorcas, 
she  thinks  that  Lowell  lost  his  life  in  his  effort  to 
save  her  father's 

"Dorcas,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  gravel  path,  "there  is  such  a  sublimity  of 
devotion  in  her  memory  of  Lowell,  that  that  in  itself 
wins  me  to  her.  I  respect  and  love  her  for  her  very 
loyalty  to  my  brother." 

Dorcas  stooped  and  pulled  a  weed  out  from  among 
the  carnations.  Presently  she  said,  and  very  insist- 
ently: 

"Doyt  at  least  loves  you  as  a  brother  and  very 
dearly.     Her  very  gratitude  to  you  makes  her  tender." 

He  looked  into  her  face. 

"Aunt  Dorcas,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  show  of 
impatience  in  his  manner,  "there's  no  use  discussing 
that  view  of  the  case,  I  couldn't  3tay  here  and  be  a 
brother  to  her,  if  I  would,"  he  said  bitterly.  "Society, 
under  its  present  vulgar  training  will  not  allow  it.  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you,  but  I've  had  hints  already 
of  what  is  being  said  in  regard  to  my  coming  here, 
and  quite  possibly  I  do  not  know  all  that  has  been 
said.  There  is  a  shadow  of  a  possibility  that  I  have 
already  injured  her  pure  name.  I  can't  remain  here 
even  as  a  brother  and  not  come  to  see  her,"  he  said 


292  ^1^  ^^^1^  MADE  HER. 

in  a  tone  oJ'  gentle  inflexion,  "J 'am  not  strong  enough 
for  that.  Aunt  Dorcas,  I  lii^e  the  people  here  among 
whom  Ym  work  lies.  I  like  my  work;  I  love  ni}^  na- 
tive state,  I  love  its  keen,  inspiring  air,  I  love  its 
even  temperature,  its  cheer  and  its  beauty  and  its 
generous  bounty.  I  like  the  peace  of  the  place  here — 
its  trees,  its  comfort;  the  inanimate  things  here  even 
are  sacred  to  me,  yet  I  must  avoid  it  as  if  I  were  a 
leper.  I  must  get  away  from  it  all  as  far  as  I  can.  It's 
against  my  creed  but  I  shall  have  to  practice  the  doc- 
trine of  endurance.  It  can't  be  true,  Aunt  Dorcas, 
that  there  is  any  chance  for  being  continually  happy 
in  this  world,  though  we  do  get  a  taste  of  bliss  some- 
times. My  brother's  life  here — just  think  of  it — must 
have  been  perfect,  yet  he  was  snatched  away.  I  don't 
suppose  after  all,  a  man  has  any  right  to  expect  so 
much  happiness  on  earth  as  I  have  known  here  since 
Gerald  began  to  get  Avell,'^  and  the  soft  sunny  light  be- 
gan to  come  back  to  those  blue  eyes  of  his  again. 

"Look  here,  Lawrence,  Doyt  is  young  and  Lowell 
was  worthy  all  the  love  she  gave  him,  but  I  don't 
think  she  will  always  remain  single.  Till  you  came 
unexpectedly  into  our  lives,  all  love,  light,  joy,  happi- 
ness was  but  a  memory.  In  spite  of  all  her  devotion 
to  her  dead  Lowell  her  heart  was  learning  to  love  the 
living  Lawrence.     She  could  not  understand  herself." 

"It  will  be  hard  for.  me  to  say  good-bye,"  Lawrence 
replied;  "my  heart  will  yearn  for  her  as  long  as  I  live. 
I  have  found  such  sweet  rest  here,  but  now  I  must 
push  out  into  the  world  again.'' 

He  began  to  see  his  way  in  a  new  light  and  to  have 
different  notions  of  his  duty  to  Doyt.  He  forgot  that 
she  was  his  sister.  He  saw  only  how  fair  was  her  face, 
how  lustrous  blue  her  eyes,  how  slender  her  long, 
lovely,  white  fingers,  how  ethereal  her  beauty,  how 
lovely  her  character.  There  was  between  them  a 
soothing  sense  of  mutual  interest. 

Dorcas  continued: 


A  STORY  OF  CALIFORXIA  LIFE.  293 

''I  don't  think  you  can  ever  realize,  Lawrence,  what 
your  coming  home  has  been  to  her  and  her  child." 

"I  go  away  heart  hungry,  for  Doyt  has  been  such  a 
delightful  companion.  In  justice  to  the  wife  of  my 
brother,  I  cannot,  dare  not,  remain  longer.'" 

Dorcas  replied  with  a  significance  in  her  manner: 

"Lawrence,  go  see  Doyt  before  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  go.'' 

At  that  moment  Doyt  came  into  the  garden  and, 
seeing  her  guest  and  friend,  advanced  and  greeted 
him  Avith  a  cordial  smile  of  welcome. 

Dorcas,  after  plucking  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  en- 
tered the  house. 

Seating  themselves  on  the  rustic  seat  beneath  the 
magnolia,  Doyt  said: 

"Lawrence,  I  have  waited  the  opportunity  to  tell 
you  how  overwhelming  is  my  gratitude  for  all  you 
have  done  for  me.  It  was  you  who  saved  Gerald  and 
me  from  a  lifetime  of  remorse.  You  came  to  me  in 
my  darkest  hour,  vrhen  one  I  had  trusted  failed,  when 
the  thought  of  the  possibility  of  his  perfidy  wrung  my 
heart.  Next  to  the  memory  of  his  father,  I  shall 
teach  my  boy  veneration  for  you.  I  shall  train  him 
to  believe  that  he  owes  his  life,  health,  and  perfection 
of  form  to  you.  After  a  year  of  human  agony, 
through  vour  coming,  I  Avas  brought  out  into  the  sun- 
light."' 

He  listened  with  poignant  intensity. 

"There  was  no  brightness  for  so  long  a  time  until 
yoLi  came.  Till  you  came  all  my  prospects  were  deso- 
late, my  life  blighted — but  for  you  it  would  have  been 
one  long  torture." 

x\s  she  was  talking  they  had  arisen.  They  went  to- 
gether into  the  parlor  and  stood  under  LowelFs  pic- 
ture.    Pointing  to  it,  she  continued: 

"Death  took  hiui  when  he  was  young  and  honored 
and  loved.  AVhen  he  had  activity  of  brain  and 
strength  of  limb,  when  his  pulse  was  strong,  when  the 


294  ^^^^  ^^OD  MADE  HER. 

work!  about  him  was  full  of  joy  and  loveliness.  With- 
out opportunity  to  say  good-bye,  we  parted.  When  I 
kissed  his  lips  for  the  last  time,  they  were  cold  and  un- 
responsive. The  house  was  once  so  happy.  It  is 
sacred  to  me  now  for  the  joy  I  have  known  in  it,  but 
after  they  had  gone  and  until  you  came  it  was  dark 
and  lonely." 

To  hear  her  thus  talk  enriched  his  own  remembrance 
of  his  brother. 

"I  used  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  I  was  so  happy 
and  others  had  so  much  misfortune.  Not  for  the 
world  would  I  become  alienated  from  the  friend  who 
has  done  so  much  for  me." 

Words  of  such  thrilling  meaning  went  into  Law- 
rence's very  soul — a  flush  overspread  his  face.  She 
continued,  now  with  her  great  blue  eyes  suffused  in 
tears: 

"If  you  should  go,  it  would  be  like  losing  Lowell 
again." 

Slic  faltered,  she  turned  from  the  picture  and  looked 
at  Lawrence.  He  was  so  handsome,  a  counterpart  of 
her  husbaud.  She  saw  the  same  fairness  of  brow,  the 
same  smile,  the  same  cleverness  of  brain,  the  same 
tenderness  toward  woineu,  the  same  sympathetic  heart 
for  all  who  suffer. 

Lawrence,  taking  her  by  the  hand  said: 

"You  have  forced  me  to  speak,  Doyt;  I  have  learned 
to  love  you,  I  cannot,  try  as  I  will,  no  matter  where 
I  go,  unlearn  the  lesson.  Because  you  were  once  my 
brother's  wife,  a  barrier  lies  between  us.  For  this 
reasou  1  must  go  away  again  and  live  in  exile.  My 
love  came  too  late.  All  that  is  left  to  me  of  kindred 
in  all  the  world  is  one  little  child." 

Doyt,  smiling  through  her  tears,  answered: 

"T  did  not  believe  that  anything  like  this  would 
ever  come  to  uie  again" — hesitating  a  moment' — "till 
vou  came." 


-4   .STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIFE.  295 

There  was  untold  love  in  the  eloquence  of  her  tell- 
tale eyes.  The  lovers  drew  together  in  mutual  em- 
brace and  lips  became  glued  to  lips  in  unpremeditated 
ecstaey. 

Lawrence's  ethical  objections  to  their  union  in  a 
moment  were  scattered  to  the  winds. 

"We  three  are  all  that  is  left/'  she  murmured,  "and 
we  seem  to  belong  to  each  other." 

She  felt  now  that  she  would  by  him  again  be  shel- 
tered by  tenderest  love  and  care,  and  as  his  wife  a 
sweet,  peaceful  future  awaited  her. 

"The  peace  of  the  days  since  you  came,  Lawrence 
bore  such  a  resemblance  to  the  olden  time,  when  hap- 
piness was  triumphant,  that  I  long  to  have  them  con- 
tinued. You  saved  the  life  of  my  boy,  Lawrence,  and 
you  saved  to  me  my  youth,  and  I  feel  that  both  be- 
long to  you." 

Like  a  tired  bird,  whose  wings  were  spent  from  long 
striving  with  a  storm  at  sea,  she  laid  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder  and  was  at  last  at  rest. 

END. 


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